


lace out of lashes

by alcibiades



Series: a little light in your black sea [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Banter, Choking, Dancing, Inappropriate Erections, Infertility, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Paparazzi, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Prank Wars, Relationship Discussions, Rough Sex, Spanking, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Under-negotiated Kink, Undercover Missions, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcibiades/pseuds/alcibiades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky and Natasha go on a mission together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lace out of lashes

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song ["Flood on the Floor" by Purity Ring.](https://youtu.be/0ZyZxxf5fVE) While this takes place in the same universe as _deep in this anatomy, buried_ and its related works, it can be read as a standalone.
> 
>  
> 
> [The full version of the cover art can be found here on tumblr.](http://dorkbait.tumblr.com/post/123678562095/cover-art-for-lace-out-of-lashes-25k-rated-e)

  


"She felt at once like she'd known him forever and like she'd just discovered something entirely new. In that moment he became visible, not just a figure that walked the same route home every afternoon. He was like her. Nothing would make him belong there, and he was on his way through."  
\-- Cara Hoffman, _Be Safe I Love You_

"Nice shorts," Natasha's voice called from the entrance to the practice room.

The music ticked down a couple of notches and Bucky turned to face her from where he'd been stretching. "Thank you," he said. "They're a treasured gift from a dear friend."

The shorts in question were hot pink and said _Ms. New Booty_ on the ass in rhinestones. Since the bikini incident, and the packing peanut and shaving cream incident that had followed, the prank war of attrition between Bucky and Natasha had continued on a basis that, while it could not be called _regular_ , was certainly _frequent._ Natasha seemed to be fixated on trying to find something that Bucky wouldn't wear: First there had been the bikini, then a pair of baby pink Doc Martens delivered to him in public by a bike messenger who had been instructed to sing "I Feel Pretty" in its entirety, and finally the mysterious replacement of all his gym shorts with Ms. New Booty shorts in a veritable rainbow of colors. For about a week Bucky had stuck to borrowing Steve's shorts, but eventually he'd just given in, a decision made much less painful by the fact that seeing him in the shorts made both Natasha and Steve laugh uncontrollably.

"That shade of fuchsia really suits your complexion," Natasha said. "You're _definitely_ a Spring."

" _You're_ definitely late," Bucky said, rolling his shoulder and arching his feet as Natasha took her shoes off and padded over to the barre.

He and Natasha had taken to sparring with each other a couple of months ago. What Natasha lacked in strength and power compared to Steve, she made up for in finesse, adaptability, and agility, and fighting her provided a unique and useful challenge. Or at least it would have if Bucky _could_ actually fight her. What he'd discovered was that there was some kind of weird mental block which prevented him from giving his all; he always ended up unintentionally pulling his punches, no matter how much Natasha provoked him, and all that really did was frustrate them both.

So they'd switched to dance, instead. Natasha was a technically excellent dancer, and the more she partnered with Bucky, the more she started to relax and let a little more of herself show through, too. It made for a good workout -- physically and mentally challenging, and it was a hell of a party trick besides.

Bucky didn't know if the room they were in had originally been meant for dance or martial arts or what, but it had a barre and all the walls were mirrored, so it suited just fine for either purpose. He padded into the center of the room, shrugging the loose neck of his shirt up. It was one of Steve's old t-shirts, simultaneously too big and too small in the most awkward of ways, and it was threadbare as hell, but it was comfortable for moving around in and he didn't care if he got it sweaty.

Natasha followed him into the center of the room. He liked watching her walk toward him; the dance was already there in the particular cadence of her steps, like it was always inside, just waiting for music and the right partner. He put one arm around her waist, his palm flat against the small of her back, and took her other hand, and Jarvis started the music.

A couple of hours later they were both sweaty and a little bit winded, and Bucky went to the corner of the room to get his water bottle and then sat down, leaning back against the wall. He watched Natasha practice a couple of the steps by herself, and then she came over too and sat down next to him. She extended her hand and he put the water bottle into it.

"How was that mission in Bougainville?" he asked.

She grimaced, shaking her head. Her hair fell forward; she had cut it short about a month ago, after an unfortunate incident with a wannabe supervillain who wore something like miniature jet turbines on his boots. Now she and Bucky had almost the same haircut, except that hers was shorter on the sides and longer on top, and very straight, as opposed to Bucky's haphazard waves. "I hate the jungle," she said, after a moment. "I don't know if I've told you that, but I _really_ hate the jungle. Give me freezing cold tundra over bug-infested humid swampy jungle, in a heartbeat."

"Yeah, I bet," Bucky said, shifting.

Natasha took another swig from the water bottle and then passed it back over. "How's Steve?" she asked.

"Steve's good," Bucky said. "He started this big ambitious painting and I swear he's been working on it for a month and a half and I don't think he's anywhere near finishing it."

"What is it?" Natasha asked.

"I don't know, actually," Bucky said. "I think it's some kind of cityscape, but it's all broken apart, and there are parts of it that are just -- it kind of dissolves. I don't know the word for it. And then there are some figures in there too, or pieces of them. Fragments, I guess. It's like six feet long."

Natasha made a face, raising her eyebrows and nodding. "That _is_ big," she said. "How are things with the two of you?"

"What do you mean?" Bucky asked, even though he knew what she meant. It had been more than a year that he and Steve had been together now, and things didn't show much sign of slowing down between them. It made sense, really; Bucky had felt what he felt for Steve very strongly more or less ever since he'd known Steve. Even when their relationship had been platonic, it had been intense. There were times when Bucky's other friends had been mad, or disappointed, because Bucky spent so much time with Steve. And then there had been the point at which he didn't really _have_ friends other than Steve. Just dates, coworkers, and acquaintances.

He realized he'd paused, sorting through those thoughts. "Good," he said. "Everything is good, I mean -- I've known Steve for a really long time, I already knew how I felt about him."

"Yeah," Natasha said, "but sometimes those relationships don't survive the paradigm shift, you know?"

Bucky smiled lopsidedly. "Sure," he said, and then, "no, things are good. I don't know, I already know how to do it all. I mean, living with him, arguing about money, fighting with each other, we've kind of been through that."

"Uh huh," Natasha said. "So when are you gonna get married?"

Bucky glanced at her in surprise. She had that little half-smirk on her face, the one she always wore when she was joking-but-actually-serious. "Wow," she said. "That one spooked you."

"I guess I never thought about it," Bucky said.

"I only ask because I was thinking the other day," Natasha said, taking the water bottle from him again, curling and uncurling her bare toes. "I understand why Steve wasn't married, back before the war, but it actually seems kind of strange -- you were what, in your mid-twenties? And you weren't married yet, and from what I know, you were a pretty eligible bachelor."

Bucky blew out a breath. "It was part of my reputation," he said. "I mean, I didn't have a bad reputation -- girls wouldn't have wasted the time of day on me if I had a bad reputation. I just had -- I don't know, I was hard to pin down. I just didn't get real serious with anybody. A lot of girls kind of saw it as a challenge."

"A challenge none of them ever won," Natasha said.

"What am I, a stuffed tiger or something?" Bucky asked. "What about you, I don't see you getting married anytime soon."

Natasha smiled that half-smile again. "I'm hard to pin down," she said. She paused for a second and then added, "I guess maybe it's just me thinking of you in obsolete terms, or stereotypes. But I always saw you as being the kind of person that wanted -- you know, a family."

"You mean like kids?" Bucky asked. After a moment, she shrugged and nodded. Bucky scratched his cheek. "I don't know," he said. "I like kids, sure. It was more that it was kind of a social norm, you know? That was what I was supposed to want. Anyway it's kind of a moot point now."

Natasha nodded, and Bucky saw the movement echoed in the mirrors all around the room, the little sharp motion of her chin and a few strands of hair shifting. "I actually like kids," she said. "Nobody expects me to, but I like them. It's a scary idea, parenthood, but I like kids." She glanced at him and smiled, wider, a more genuine smile. "You and Steve would make nice-looking babies, I bet."

"Oh, sure," Bucky said. "With my double chin and Steve's beak of a nose, we'd be winning prize baby contests all over New York City. Anyway, I don't think science has quite gotten that far yet, and even if it had -- I'm out of the race, if you get my meaning."

Natasha raised her eyebrows. Bucky lifted his left hand and made a scissors-snipping motion. "Vasectomy," he said. "Sometime during when they had me. I'm shooting blanks."

Natasha was quiet for a minute, and then she said, "Yeah, me too."

"Shit," Bucky said. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Natasha answered. "I used to get really mad at people who -- I told some people, a few, and they would treat me like it was this huge tragedy, like being a mother was some essential part of being a woman and it was just the worst thing in the world that I was missing out on it. And that made me so angry that I used to just pretend I never wanted anything to do with it." She paused, chewing on her lower lip. "And now I don't know. Part of me thinks I'd be a shitty mother and this is a terrible life to bring a kid into, but mostly I'm just angry that I don't even have that option. Somebody just decided that I'll never get to experience that."

Bucky nodded. He knew how she felt. He reached over and put his arm around her, and she leaned against him. "Oh well," she said after another moment. "I can always adopt."

"You, me, and Steve can adopt together," Bucky said. "It'll be the most confusing family ever. Two dads, a mom, a robot, and a couple of alien uncles."

"Tony's not an alien," said Natasha. "He's just an asshole."

Bucky was amused that she knew who he meant at all. "I feel like my footwork in the third sequence needs work," Natasha said thoughtfully. "And your arms are stiff."

"Well, the one is made of metal," Bucky said. "Not exactly the most fluid material."

"Excuses," Natasha said lightly.

"Sure, sure," Bucky said, standing up and offering her his hand. "What, you want to go again?"

She took his hand and pulled herself up. "I think you need to be less on your toes and more on the balls of your feet," he said, walking back into the center of the room, watching as she tested it out. "Yeah, more like that."

She nodded thoughtfully, and when the music started up, he pulled her into his arms, and they went spinning and whirling around the room all over again. It wasn't that she weighed nothing -- she was all muscle, and weighed more than she looked like she should -- but her weight was easy to take, and it felt good.

+++

They were at their favorite lunch place, in Brooklyn. Steve was having pork banh mi and Bucky was eating a meatball sub, and they were both ignoring the clamor of photographers outside. The paparazzi had been ruthless lately -- Bucky didn't know what it was or why, but they followed him and Steve everywhere, shouting, cajoling, snapping photos. It was irritating as fuck, and worse because it wasn't just him and Steve that it inconvenienced, it was everyone else everywhere they went. "You see the one with us in Central Park?" Bucky asked Steve around a mouthful.

Steve raised his eyebrows. "No," he said. "What do you mean?"

Bucky shook his head. "I don't even know what day it was," he said. "We were just walking along. The big scandal is that somebody took a photo of us stopping to get a hotdog and your hand was on my ass."

Steve muttered something indistinct and shook his head. "I mean, really," Bucky said. "What kind of a role model are you supposed to be, anyway?"

Steve went to reply but they were both distracted by a sudden flurry of yelling from outside, and then Natasha ducking in with her hand up by her face and coming over to their table. "You boys really know how to bring the party," she said. "Hi."

"Hi," Steve said, surprised.

"The hell did you find us?" Bucky asked.

"Are you kidding, Barnes?" Natasha said. "You _know_ there's GPS on your phones. And even if there wasn't, you left a Yelp review of this place."

"I left a -- it's not my real name!" Bucky said. "It's not even a picture of me."

"Also, JARVIS told me," Natasha said, sitting down next to Bucky. He put his arm around her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "That looks good," she said, indicating Steve's banh mi.

"It is," Steve said. "What's up?"

"What, I can't just come have lunch with you?" Natasha asked, and then, at Steve's raised eyebrows. "I have a mission I wanted to talk to you about. Plus I was really curious. James's Yelp review was pretty glowing. He even complimented the ambiance."

Steve pushed his plate toward Natasha, and she picked up his sandwich and took a bite, closing her eyes for a moment. "That _is_ good," she said, when she'd chewed and swallowed. "Okay, I have a mission. It's in Europe -- Montenegro. It might go a month or more. I have a line on a pharmaceutical company that I think is also manufacturing chemical weapons, and the C.E.O. is kind of a high society dilettante."

"You want both of us for this?" Steve asked, glancing across the table at Bucky, who met his eyes.

"No, just one," Natasha said. "I'm supposed to be half of a couple, and besides, I really think bringing both of you would be serious overkill."

Steve sighed and looked away, then back at Bucky, running a hand through his hair. He was probably, Bucky thought with amusement, thinking about his painting, the one he'd been slaving over in all his spare time, in between the children's hospitals and minor supervillains. "All right," he said, when Bucky nodded minutely. "I'm in."

"Not you, Rogers," Natasha said. "I need a spy, not a soldier."

They both looked at her in surprise. Steve ran his hand through his hair again. "What?" he said.

"I need Barnes," Natasha said. "I need another spy with me. He has the skillset."

"Like -- what?" Steve asked, sounding kind of indignant, although she was right -- Steve might have fancied himself capable of espionage, but he didn't know half of the tricks that Bucky and Natasha had been taught, and frankly Bucky wouldn't have wanted him to. What Steve was -- so stubbornly, uncompromisingly, and constantly himself -- was the opposite of what it meant to be a spy.

"Well, for one we're supposed to be a British couple," Natasha said, tilting her head, her green eyes keen. "I have voice modulators and disguises for both of us, but the voice modulators don't do accents."

She stared steadily at Steve, and eventually Steve just shook his head -- he couldn't do a British accent, Bucky knew that. He wasn't much good at impressions of any kind, unless you wanted to laugh at how bad his impressions were.

Natasha's gaze shifted to Bucky. Bucky cleared his throat. "Well, where am I from?" he asked.

"London," Natasha said. "A bit posh, but don't lay it on too thick."

Bucky rolled it all around in his head for a second, thinking. "Very good," he said. The words felt strange coming out of his mouth, differently-shaped than they would normally have been. "Such a pleasure to be here. So lovely of you to have us."

"Not bad," Natasha said. "It needs work, but it's pretty good." She reached across the table, picked up Steve's sandwich and took another bite of it, raising her eyebrow at Steve. "Okay, Rogers," she said. "Speak now or forever hold your peace."

It was funny how she still called them both by their last names when she was on 'official' business, Bucky thought. "No," Steve said. "I don't have any objections. You're right, Bucky's a better fit for it than I am. When do you start?"

"We have three weeks to prepare," Natasha said. "We're meeting him in Montenegro at a benefit event."

"Three weeks," Bucky said. "That's more time than we usually have." He shrugged, smiling lopsidedly. "Okay, I'm in."

"Good," Natasha said. "By the way, there are about thirty paparazzi out there. How are you guys planning on getting out of here?"

"Oh, Kim and Vu might let us go out the kitchen door into the alley," Bucky said, stretching and turning to glance back toward the kitchen, where the restaurant's chef and owner were conferring with each other through the service window. "They let us do that the last couple of times."

"That's nice of them," Natasha said.

"We're generous tippers," Bucky said, pointing across the table at Steve.

Natasha snorted. "Of course you are," she said. "Of course you are."

+++

"You gonna miss me?" Bucky asked. His knee was pressed against Steve's, where they were sat together on the couch, and Steve was messing around with the color settings on the TV, trying to get it right. They had been playing video games.

Steve looked at him, raising his eyebrows. "Of course I am," he said.

His eyebrows made an inward motion again, as he got that thoughtful look on his face. He didn't say whatever he was thinking, though, and after a minute, Bucky said, "What?"

"It's been a while since we've been apart that long," Steve said.

Bucky bumped his knee against Steve's. "You got some kind of selective memory, I tell you what," he said. "Did you forget all those missions you went on without me? Or are you not counting those for some reason?"

"Shit," Steve said, and then, "Yeah, you're right, I guess -- I don't know, it seemed different. I don't worry about you as much, when it's _me_ on missions."

"Worry?" Bucky said, smirking a little. "What, you don't trust that I can take care of myself?"

Steve groaned. "Stop," he said. "You know what I mean. You said you worried about _me_ when I was on missions, you know."

"Yeah," Bucky said. "I did." He smiled at Steve. "I'm just giving you a hard time."

"I know," Steve said. "You jackass." He turned and leaned in and Bucky shifted to kiss him, sweetly at first, and then, when Steve coaxed his lips open, less so. Steve had turned into a hell of a kisser, and he'd had plenty of practice by now to know exactly what Bucky liked, a fact which he used ruthlessly to his advantage. He was red-faced, his mouth swollen, when Bucky finally pulled away to catch a full breath.

"You say the sweetest things," Bucky said, tracing his finger along the line of Steve's cheekbone. He wondered if he'd ever get tired of looking at Steve. All the details just seemed worth noticing every time, though. The way the light caught his eyes, that clear blue like the color of a sunny September sky. His soft mouth, a striking contrast to the lines of his cheeks, nose, jaw. A contrast to the sharp words that came out of it.

"Something on my face?" Steve said eventually, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Bucky snorted at him. "No," he said. "I just like looking at it." He leaned in again to kiss Steve, sliding his hands under Steve's shirt, and Steve reclined back against the couch, his arms around Bucky to take Bucky with him. He was hot and solid, hotter when Bucky got his own shirt off and they were skin-to-skin.

When he pulled away again to wrestle his sweats down and kick them off, Steve's hair was sticking up in disarray from where Bucky had been running his hands through it, and Bucky had a feeling that his own hair was probably in a similar state. Steve's palms slid down the planes of Bucky's back to cup his ass, and Bucky braced an arm against the couch and ground his hips down against Steve's to listen to Steve groan.

Steve was still wearing his jeans, which wasn't conducive to the situation. It forced Bucky to sit back again and wait for Steve to get them off, button-fly and all. "Better," Bucky decided, settling back on top of Steve and rolling his hips against Steve's, feeling the hot line of Steve's cock through the layers of their underwear. Another little groan burbled out of Steve, and Bucky had a feeling that if he'd kept going at it he probably could have made Steve come that way, but that wasn't what he was after.

He tugged Steve's underwear down after a moment; Steve's cock sprang free eagerly, and Bucky couldn't hold back a laugh, which earned him a gentle smack to the face. "I gotta get these off," Bucky said, moving Steve's legs around so he could do it and then throwing Steve's underwear in a ball across the room.

"Hey," said Steve.

"I could have ripped them," Bucky said, giving one of Steve's nipples a vicious pinch. Steve blushed and swatted at him again, and Bucky added it to an ever-growing mental lexicon of things to try sometime. They had started keeping this little decorative jar on the coffee table; it had been made by hand by some ceramic artist and given to them as a gift by Pepper, but it was really just there to store lube. Pepper probably would have swallowed her tongue and laughed until she cried if she ever found out.

He got the lube out and drizzled it over his fingers, watching Steve's cock twitch, watching him push his hips up and spread his legs wider. "You like that, huh?" Bucky said. He wasn't much of a talker, really, but he had discovered that Steve liked it, in that way that Steve liked things he didn't want to admit but couldn't control his body's reaction. "Yeah," he said. "I know you do. Turn over."

Steve rolled over, exposing the long, beautiful lines of his back to Bucky, the perfect curve of his spine where it had once been crooked and nobbly enough to hurt if you let him lean against you long enough. He pillowed his face on his arm and looked back at Bucky, who ran his fingers over the strange patterned imprints the fabric of the couch had started to leave on his skin. He gave Steve's ass a little smack, and Steve leaned up into the touch, his mouth opening slightly.

"The things I would do to you," Bucky said, and thought to himself, _for you, because of you_.

"Lot of big talk back there," Steve said. Bucky laughed and smacked him again, harder, and then knocked his thighs apart wider and slipped two fingers into him to shut him up. It worked admirably well, with the added bonus that Bucky got to watch Steve pant, his open-mouthed and close-eyed expression nothing short of heavenly.

He leaned down to kiss the back of Steve's neck as he replaced his fingers with his cock and felt Steve's whole body arch underneath him as he slid in. Steve said his name, long and breathless, and Bucky said "yeah" against Steve's skin, lifted his hips up slightly, and started fucking him before he'd even had much of a chance to adjust.

Steve was tight as hell and he made more noise in this position than the usually did when they did it the other way around. It felt good; everything they did together felt good, and Bucky could almost forgive a lot of their terrible mutual history for that fact. If they'd both had to suffer, to be changed, their bodies twisted and molded like clay, there was at least this.

"God," said Steve, muffled, his open mouth dragging against the skin of his arm and the fabric of the couch. "Christ, Bucky, I'm -- gonna -- feels good --"

Bucky groaned, pressing his forehead against Steve's shoulder, setting his teeth in the muscle there. Steve jerked, and Bucky sped up his pace, angling himself into Steve in such a way that Steve shuddered and gasped with every stroke. He wedged his hand between Steve's hips and the couch and managed to circle his fingers around Steve's cock. Neither of them lasted a lot longer after that; thirty seconds later Steve was off like a shot, and way he clenched around Bucky had Bucky coming too, panting against Steve's shoulder.

Steve laughed. "What?" said Bucky.

"Yes," Steve said. "I am going to miss you."

Bucky laughed too, pressed a kiss to the bite-mark he'd left on Steve's shoulder, and pulled out carefully. There was a wet patch on the sofa, of course. This poor sofa was probably developing sentience at this point, with the amount of semen they'd deposited. Bucky got up and went to get a paper towel, and when he came back Steve was sitting up too, looking sweaty and disheveled and happy.

"Look at you, just pleased as punch," Bucky said, wiping at the wet spot. He stopped when he thought he'd gotten most of it and sat back on his haunches, feeling compelled to smile back at Steve as Steve smiled down at him. He reached up and flicked Steve's chin, lightly.

Steve took his hand and kissed the palm of it. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too," Bucky said, still smiling. "More than anything. You know I do."

"I know you do," Steve agreed. He kissed Bucky's hand again, and then closed Bucky's fingers around the place he'd just kissed, like he was leaving it there for Bucky to keep. To hold onto.

+++

It was almost easy, except that easy wasn't quite the word for it. It wasn't _easy_ to slip into being somebody else, it was just something he knew, putting on masks. Something he had practice with.

"I look like Harrison Ford in _The Fugitive,_ " he said, staring at himself in the mirror.

Natasha came up behind him and laughed. "You kind of do," she said, deactivating the mask she was wearing, peeling it off her face, and carefully folding it up. She had a little case for it, about the size of a lipstick container.

"I didn't kill my wife!" Bucky said emphatically. He peeled his mask off too and folded it up in his own small metal case. It looked like a business card holder, but it wasn't. He had a similar device, a mask of sorts, on his left arm, and unbuttoned his jacket and shirt so he could pull that off too.

The first thing they'd done when they got into their hotel room was to sweep it for surveillance, and then the two of them went around and placed their own bugs, just in case. Once they were satisfied that nobody except them was watching, they could be themselves again. For Natasha it was mostly the mask; her hair was long and honey-blonde now, what Bucky could only assume was the result of extensions and a wizard of a stylist, and her silhouette remained mostly unchanged. All of Bucky's clothing for this mission had layers of padding subtly built into it and was cut to hide his shape. His character was meant to be fit, but he was a forty-five-year-old businessman, not a supersoldier with too much free time on his hands.

"You look nice as a blonde," he said to Natasha, reaching out to flick a perfectly-coiffured wave back out of her face. "I wouldn't have expected it."

"Thanks," said Natasha, smiling lopsidedly. The hair did something to make her softer, more accessible somehow, even with the sharp, icily perfect features of the mask on. Bucky supposed it was that the blood-red reminder of her past and present capabilities wasn't there. Anyway, he wasn't in danger of thinking of her any differently. "I would say you look nice as a forty-five-year-old, but -- mm."

"Ouch," Bucky said, hanging up his jacket and shirt in the closet and shucking off his shoes and suit pants as well. The hotel room was gorgeous, with a huge window overlooking the ocean -- a suite, really, with a full living room and everything, but for appearance's sake, it was a one-bedroom suite. What reason, after all, would a forty-five-year-old businessman and his very recently married, very blonde, very beautiful twenty-five-year-old wife have for wanting a two-bedroom? "You want me to take the couch?" he asked, skinning into his sweats and going for his briefcase, opening it up and pulling out his tablet and the folder in which he'd stored the miscellany of the mission dossier.

"Don't be stupid," Natasha said. She'd already taken off her sheath dress and pumps and was carefully hanging the dress up on its padded hanger. She wandered over next to him in her underwear and pantyhose and placed the dress next to his suit in the closet, bending to roll down the hose with a sigh of what might have been relief.

Bucky shrugged. He carried his stuff over to the bed -- it was a king size bed, to be fair; he'd mostly just been trying to be polite -- and set it down, then went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.

He'd cut his hair shorter for the mission, and he kind of missed the longer waves on top. He'd been toying with the idea of growing it out again, but that would have to wait. He glanced at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, touching the skin under his eyes. The same wrinkles that had been there for a while, for about as long as he could remember. Laugh lines mostly, he liked to think.

Natasha chuckled, coming into the bathroom behind him, in a tank-top and pajama pants now. "Vanity is a sin, you know," she said, squeezing toothpaste out onto her own toothbrush.

"Tell me about it," said Bucky lightly. It had been a favored lecture of the nuns, who lacked a lot else to lecture him on, other than hanging around with Steve. Once they'd figured out that lecturing him about Steve didn't work, they'd started on vanity. Bucky hadn't really ever listened to them on either count. He set his toothbrush aside and poured himself a glass of tap water, squeezed out some lotion onto the fingers of his right hand and massaged it into his face and neck.

Natasha was watching him as she brushed her teeth, one eyebrow raised. "Really?" Bucky said. "You just gonna stand and silently judge my bathroom habits? I have dry skin."

"I bet," Natasha said around her toothbrush, and Bucky shook his head at her and went back into the bedroom, climbing into bed and turning on one of the bedside lights to read over the dossier again.

Natasha came back some time later, with her hair pinned up into a messy bun and all of her makeup taken off, and climbed in too. "You don't have to memorize all of that, you know," she said, stretching and getting into the other side of the bed.

"Makes me feel better," Bucky said. He read for a while longer, illuminated by the yellow light of the bedside lamp and the cool blue glow of the screen, and then he turned it off and curled up on his side and tried to sleep.

Natasha shifted about an hour later. "You're not asleep either, are you," she said.

"No," said Bucky.

She sighed, and he could see her hand come up and rub over her eyes in the dark. "I'm jetlagged," she said. "I really thought I would get past this, at some point."

"Well, you could just be me, and sleep like shit, no matter where you are or what time it is," Bucky said. "Just use that as an excuse."

Natasha laughed quietly. "That's not an excuse, it's trauma," she said, and then, after a pause, "I used to only be able to sleep because I learned a routine for doing it and I could convince myself that if I didn't follow the routine they'd find me and punish me."

"You don't really strike me as the kind to be scared of punishment," Bucky said.

"Scared -- no," Natasha said. "You're right. I just always hated screwing up."

"Perfectionist," said Bucky.

"Of course," Natasha agreed.

Bucky reached over, flipped the lamp on, and sat up on his elbows. "I haven't slept in the same bed as anyone else in a while either," Natasha said.

Bucky raised an eyebrow questioningly. "You remember that mission, the hostage rescue one," Natasha said. "I think I spent that entire mission watching you and Steve, trying to figure out how you did it."

"Did what?" Bucky asked, although he had a feeling he sort of knew.

"The two of you are --" Natasha reached up and meshed her fingers together. "You're in tune with each other. Anybody can see it. It was there even before I knew that you were dating."

"I've known him a long time," Bucky said. Sometimes he didn't know how they did it either -- it wasn't so much a conscious process, and he was uncertain when or how he'd learned Steve so well, and Steve him. And half of it wasn't even spoken, it was all in the fact that they could read each other's facial expressions and posture like you would read a particularly well-loved book.

"I know," Natasha said. "You don't have to cheapen it by pretending it's something ordinary, you know."

"Well, I don't know _how_ to explain it," Bucky said. "And that seems to be what you want, some kind of explanation." He paused, and then added, "And I know you're smart enough to know that that's not a thing you can explain."

"I know how to do it," Natasha said. "Get close to people. I would be terrible at my job if I didn't. But sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to understand how to do it when it's not a job." She looked at Bucky, and her expression was probably as genuinely sad as he'd ever seen her look. "I'm not like you and Steve. I was never a normal person. I was raised in the Red Room; I don't remember what being a normal person is like."

Bucky laughed and blew out a breath. "Me neither," he said, and then, at Natasha's sharp look, "Don't do that, I'm serious."

Natasha was stonily silent for a minute. "Natasha, you're doing fine," said Bucky.

After another few seconds, he added, "It's -- nice that -- thank you for talking to me about it," he said. "Thank you for trusting me."

She smiled a little. "Well," she said. "You know what it's like."

Bucky nodded.

"I don't know if I could ever put it into words," she said. "What it feels like to have somebody expose every vulnerability, and use it against you. To have somebody try and burn every last weakness out of you."

"I don't think there are any words for it," Bucky said. He did know what that was like, intimately, and the sense of utter humiliation that came when you failed. But he didn't know what it was like to only ever know that. He had been being strong for as long as he could remember -- be strong for your mother, for your sisters, for Steve, for the guys in your unit, put on a brave face and wear it no matter what, even if it chips, cracks, shatters. But that wasn't exactly the same as what Natasha was talking about. "What about you and Barton?" he asked eventually.

"It's not like that," Natasha said, and then, twisting and propping her head up on one hand, "Well -- not really. Clint is -- somebody I know I can depend on."

"Well, that's a start," Bucky said. He stretched, his back popping, and then sighed. "You know I'm really not the person to talk to for relationship advice anyway. I don't know how Steve and I do any of it either. We just do."

Natasha looked at him wryly. "Is this somehow related to that conversation we had last month?" Bucky said. "About marriage and babies and all that?"

"Isn't everything?" Natasha asked. "Why? Can't stop thinking about it?"

"Something like that, sure," Bucky said. "Mostly the more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that the idea of me and Steve trying to have kids is a terrible idea."

Natasha laughed. "I'm not kidding," Bucky said. "And I don't mean anything frivolous by it, I just -- you remember when you asked me what my parents were like, and I said I didn't really know them?"

Natasha nodded, her eyes watching him steadily, glinting a little in the dim yellow light. "That's the thing," Bucky said. "My parents did a fine job. They were good parents. But I still -- I still remember all the things I wished they'd done. Every time my pop would tell me he couldn't play catch with me because he had to do something else, or my ma would hardly give me the time of day because she was so busy with my sisters. I wish I didn't remember it so clearly, but I do."

"Doesn't everyone feel that way about their parents?" Natasha asked, which Bucky thought was funny, because he knew she couldn't remember hers. "It's pretty much the oldest story in the book, isn't it? Resenting your parents for their perceived faults?"

"Sure, I suppose," Bucky said. "But with me and Steve -- I think about leaving a child for months at a time, and I think to myself: That kid would know. Would _know_ that whatever it was we were doing, we decided it was more important than being parents. And maybe it would be, it probably would be. The greater good, and all that. And I'm sure we'd do fine, too, but the bottom line is that I don't want to be that kind of parent. I wouldn't want to be the kind of parent who was always just leaving his kid behind."

"You could retire," Natasha said, raising an eyebrow.

"No I couldn't," Bucky said. "You know that as well as I do."

Natasha smiled a little. "I guess not," she said. "You know a lot of people do more with less, though."

"I know they do," Bucky said. "And I'm sure as hell not passing judgment on any of them. I'm just saying -- I wouldn't want that. Don't want that." He laughed. "Shit, I don't even think I could stand to have a dog and leave it behind when I went on missions."

"You like dogs?" Natasha asked. "Yeah, I can see that. Does Steve like dogs?"

"Yeah, Steve likes dogs," Bucky said. "Don't most people like dogs?"

"I'm more of a cat person, honestly," Natasha said, laying back down and closing her eyes. "They're more independent. But I think they still miss you when you're gone." She opened her eyes again and smiled at Bucky a little. "I guess we made our lifestyle choices and now we have to live with them."

"Yeah," Bucky said, "But we didn't, really, you and me. We more or less had them chosen for us. The fact that we keep doing what we do doesn't negate that, you know. I know that. You don't have to pretend otherwise to try and make me feel better about it."

Natasha blinked at him. "You've gotten good at reading me," she said.

"Maybe I'm just more perceptive than you give me credit for," Bucky replied. "Or maybe I'm just full of surprises."

"A little of both, maybe," said Natasha. Bucky reached up and turned the light off again, and settled back down onto his side. A little bit of both -- that had been his life story for as long as he could remember.

+++

He did fall asleep, finally, after counting his heartbeats for about forty minutes, and woke up to sunlight streaming in the curtains, bathing the whole bedroom in a sort of surreal, creamy pink light. He had rolled over and grabbed onto Natasha sometime during the night, and his face was pressed up against her shoulder and the back of her neck. He shifted and realized that wasn't the only thing pressing against her; he was sporting some incredible morning wood, which wasn't remotely surprising, but was a little inconvenient given the situation. "Well," he said muzzily, "that's awfully impolite of me."

Natasha laughed sleepily, and Bucky let go of her and climbed out of bed, heading for the bathroom and turning the shower on. The situation calmed itself down a bit once it became evident to Bucky's dick that the usual round of morning sex with Steve wasn't forthcoming, and by the time Natasha came into the bathroom about five minutes later, it was pretty much under control. "What are you doing in there?" she asked. "Jerking off?"

"Taking a shower, thank you," said Bucky, glancing out at her indistinct silhouette through the frosted glass of the shower door.

She finished whatever she was doing and turned to look at him. "There's an espresso machine," she said. "I'm going to make myself a double. Do you want anything?"

"Double Americano, if you're offering," Bucky said.

"Okay," Natasha said, heading out of the bathroom.

He smelled coffee, and by the time he got out of the shower, Natasha was coming back into the bathroom with her espresso. "I left yours on the bedside table," she said, setting her espresso down on the sink and reaching for a set of hot rollers she must have plugged in the first time she'd come in.

"Thanks," said Bucky, watching as she took her hair down and started to put the hot rollers in, wondering how many people had ever had the opportunity to see her getting ready. Mostly she just seemed to appear wherever she intended to be, fully put together, with no apparent effort put into it. He knew that was all bullshit, of course -- he, himself, was something of an expert on looking like he put less effort into things than he really did, and had been since he was about five years old.

He realized she was looking at his reflection in the mirror, with her eyebrow raised. "Nothing," he said, and shook his head. "I'm going to do the tan suit, if you want to match me."

+++

They went down to wander around the city like the tourists they were supposed to be -- and honestly, if Bucky wasn't a tourist now, he didn't know when he ever had been in his life. The city was beautiful. Steve would have loved it, and Bucky snapped a few pictures to send to him.

"It's nice, isn't it?" said Natasha, looping her arm through his.

"Fucking picturesque, is what it is," Bucky said, but not loudly enough that anyone else would hear him. And it was -- the fresh air of the bay, the old stone buildings and narrow, winding streets. The sky was so blue and all the roofs were that terra-cotta color. Of all the places to have a mission, it certainly beat the jungle and the tundra both.

Their wanderings might have seemed aimless, but in reality they were walking a carefully planned route and waiting for their mark to appear. He didn't follow a set schedule, but human beings were creatures of habit, and there were a number of places that he was known to frequent. Maybe it was luck, or maybe it was just that it was getting on ten in the morning and the guy, like most human beings, was hungry for breakfast.

Either way, the arrangement was plenty agreeable to Bucky. When they spotted the guy, he was sitting down to eat at a little cafe, up at the top of a hill. Bucky and Natasha got a table too, settled into the rickety wire chairs, and ordered coffee.

The thing about bad people, really, was that they looked just like everyone else. It was one of the most innocuous things about evil, that it didn't look evil. And this guy looked like a hundred people that Bucky had seen before -- white, fleshy without really being fat, grey hair, shiny aviator sunglasses. He was ordering a cappuccino. There didn't seem to be anyone with him, but Bucky was sure there were probably bodyguards and a personal aide somewhere in the vicinity.

"Shall we order, darling?" Bucky asked.

Natasha smiled. She was wearing a white, lacy cotton dress that didn't precisely match the tan suit Bucky was wearing, but it certainly gave the appearance that they had dressed with each other in mind -- the cork wedges, her straw sunhat. "Let's," she said.

They made small talk about their fake business while they ate -- crepes, with yogurt and lots of fresh fruit, another thing Steve would have loved -- and watched the mark as he went about his own breakfast, which seemed mainly to consist of lots of cappuccinos and cigarettes. "It's very illuminating, isn't it," Natasha said, sotto voce.

"Certainly, my dear," Bucky said. After a moment, he added, "He's looking in this direction. Give me a kiss."

Without hesitation, she leaned in and planted one on him. It was funny -- to anybody else, with the masks on it would have looked like their false faces were kissing, but in reality it was all just Natasha and Bucky. Natasha pulled away after about thirty seconds, flipping her hair over her shoulder and adjusting her hat. "Have I smeared my lipstick?" she asked.

"Not at all," Bucky said. "And he's not looking anymore." He sat back, adjusting his cuffs. "Should we go sailing after this?"

"That sounds lovely," Natasha said. She stretched out both arms and looked at them, and Bucky admired how different these affected mannerisms were from her usual movements. "I'll have to wear sunscreen, though. I don't want to burn."

"Of course not," Bucky agreed, clocking the mark's security as he stood up and started to walk away. They were pretty good, but nowhere near good enough to fool himself or Natasha. He inclined his head slightly, and Natasha nodded minutely beside him.

They paid their bill and got up about a minute and a half after the mark, walking in the same direction he'd gone but taking a different street. Their path wound down to the marina, where they'd booked a sailboat to take them out for a couple of hours on the water. Like the rest of the day so far, it seemed perfectly leisurely, except that both of them had high-powered binoculars on them and they'd vetted the sailboat owner very thoroughly before hiring him.

Time passed in that strange vacuum of focus that it sometimes did for Bucky on missions. It was easy to shunt aside other, distracting urges and sensations, and Natasha did an admirable job of handling the boat captain's occasional small talk. Mostly the man seemed used to letting people be and just steering his boat, a fact which Bucky could appreciate.

It was mid-afternoon by the time they pulled back into the marina. Bucky had a couple of texts from Steve, and they didn't have to be anywhere until later that evening -- the benefit gala, held in the ballroom of the largest hotel in the city -- so he sat down in the living room, put his feet up on the coffee table, and gave Steve a call. "Hey," Steve said, picking up on the second ring.

"Were you just sitting there by your phone or what?" Bucky asked.

"I'm about to go to sleep," Steve said. Bucky could hear a smile in his voice. "So it was sitting right by my head."

"What time is it there?" Bucky asked.

"Almost ten," Steve said, and then, when Bucky chuckled, "Don't laugh at me, I don't have you here to keep me up all night playing video games --"

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Bucky said.

Steve snorted. "How is it?" he asked.

"Fine so far," Bucky said. "It's nice here."

"Yeah, I saw your photos," Steve said. "I'm a little jealous."

"I spent two and a half hours watching him through binoculars from a boat this afternoon, so don't be too jealous," Bucky said.

"Only two and a half hours?" asked Steve.

"For today," said Bucky. "Why, what'd you do today?"

"Worked on that painting," Steve said with a laugh. "And I had lunch with Pepper, actually. She said to tell you she already misses you."

"That's nice of her," Bucky said.

"Sam's coming up for the weekend," Steve said. "We might try and catch a game or something, I'm not sure. There's an exhibit at the Guggenheim that looks like it might be pretty good."

"You're gonna go see it without me?" Bucky asked.

"We can go again when you get back if you really want to see it," Steve said. Bucky pictured him in bed, smiling into his phone. He thought about FaceTiming Steve, but it had only been like a day and a half that he'd been gone, and he didn't need to be that greedy.

"Okay," said Bucky. He felt Natasha's presence in the room, and glanced over his shoulder to see her watching him, leaning in the doorway with her arms folded. "I should be able to call you again soon. Talk to you later, okay?"

"All right," Steve said. "Be safe. I love you."

"'Be safe,'" Bucky echoed with a laugh. "I love you too. Good night."

He hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket. Natasha pushed off the doorframe and came further into the room. "Sorry to interrupt," she said. "You didn't have to hang up, you know."

"Sure, I know," Bucky said, shrugging. Didn't matter, though; he didn't need to spend another ten minutes making small talk with Steve when they'd barely been apart, and they needed to prepare for this evening's event anyway.

+++

The plan was relatively simple: They would engineer an introduction tonight at the event, and then slowly ingratiate themselves until they could get a tour of the facility. It was likely that the facility's security included biometrics, so at some point they'd have to secure the mark's handprint, voice, and retinal scans. From there, they'd infiltrate the facility and retrieve the chemical weapons, or destroy them. Or both.

All of that started tonight, at the gala. People with power inevitably wanted one thing: More power, more connections. And the cover identities they'd created for themselves had more than enough substance behind them to make it seem like Natasha and Bucky could provide that. It should be relatively easy to get an introduction. And as far as ingratiating himself went, Bucky had a lot of practice with that as well.

"Zip me?" said Natasha. She was wearing a lovely, bias-cut beige silk gown that looked astonishingly beautiful on her, and also astonishingly like something she would never wear, holding the heavy mass of her hair up with one arm and gesturing to its tiny zipper with her other hand.

Bucky looked at his fingers to make sure he didn't have anything on them and obliged her, halfway through his own getting-ready process. The masks were fairly easy to put on and secure, but the arm, which went all the way up to his shoulder, was a little bit more delicate. It was lucky that he had learned to do a lot of things one-handed.

Natasha glanced at him over her shoulder as she let go of her hair. Her hand was full of bobby pins, and as she walked away she started to pin a few pieces of hair up. "You need help with that?" she asked.

Bucky shook his head, lifting his arm and starting to secure the mesh fabric to the underside of his left bicep. He'd never really thought about the fact that he technically only had one real armpit before.

"You sure?" Natasha asked dubiously.

Bucky looked over at her again. She had some bobby pins in her mouth now, and was using both hands to twist pieces of hair back into her chignon with the ease of someone who clearly had a lot of practice. "I'm sure," he said. "I was just taking a moment to consider the fact that I only have one armpit."

Natasha's expression cycled briefly into an expression of long-suffering disbelief that made Bucky laugh. "I'll be sure to let Steve know how lucky he is," she said. Her voice was dry enough to be used as kindling, probably.

+++

The hotel was the largest in town, but nonetheless fairly small, nothing on the scale of some the enormous city-block-sized hotels in New York. It looked like a palace, and in fact it might have used to be; Bucky wasn't a hundred percent on the history of the place. Service entrances and corridors, on the other hand, were a different matter. He knew those by heart.

Everything was lit by yellow chandelier light, that sort of light you saw in movies, that always made everything look grand and romantic. The cast of characters here was almost uniformly less attractive than movie extras, though -- at least the men were. Bucky had never been fond of the term 'trophy wife,' but there seemed to be a lot of them in attendance.

Technically Natasha was meant to be one of them, more or less. Bucky glanced over at her where she was talking within a small group of women; he could hear her in his ear, and she was talking about schooling. It was a life story so different from his own as to be basically unfathomable -- being groomed from birth to look pretty, act polite, and marry rich.

Their mark was across the room, embroiled in a conversation he'd been having with a couple of men for a good ten or fifteen minutes. Bucky thought he could see an opportunity forming. He handed off his empty champagne glass to a waiter, with a nod, and headed for Natasha.

"Pardon me, ladies," he said. "Terribly rude of me to cut in, I know, but I was wondering if I might borrow my wife for a moment."

They all smiled at him, agreeable, and he took Natasha by the elbow, while she said, "Oh, Peter, really," and led them across the beautiful, creamy marble floor, toward Rolfsen.

Rolfsen glanced up from his conversation and saw them coming. There was a flicker of recognition as he recognized them from the cafe, a little frown that passed over his face, and then he smiled as they made it within hand-shaking range. "I'm so sorry to interrupt," Bucky said, extending a hand, "but I just couldn't last another ten minutes without saying hello to you, sir."

"I don't believe we've met," said Rolfsen.

"No, of course not," Bucky said, still smiling. "Peter Davies. This is my wife Anneliese. We're on holiday, and of course we had to take the opportunity to come to your event. We both so admire your charitable work."

"We really do, sir," Natasha said, leaning forward and giving him her dainty handshake, her hand folded so neatly. "It's such a pleasure to be able to be here."

Rolfsen looked between them, shaking Natasha's hand. "Where are you two from?" he asked.

"London," Bucky said. "But, well -- we haven't been living there for about the past year and a half or so."

"We've been living in North Dakota," Natasha explained.

"North Dakota?" Rolfsen asked. "And how are you liking that?"

"It's _dreadful_ ," Natasha said dramatically, her shoulders slumping a bit, but then she laughed. "It really is."

"Then why on earth live there?" said Rolfsen.

"Well, business, I'm afraid," Bucky said. "A very promising band of taconite. And I always think it's really best to be there for the beginnings of an operation, wouldn't you agree? But -- I'm getting ahead of myself here. Anna and I do so admire your work with sustainability and impact reduction. After I inherited the company from my father, it's been a major focus of ours."

"Yes," Rolfsen said. "We only have one Earth, don't we. Taconite -- that is mining, yes?"

"Yes," Bucky said. "Iron ore. And I couldn't agree with you more; I always say, no matter how many starving children we feed, if we ruin the planet, it won't make the slightest bit of difference."

"He does say that," Natasha said. "Too often."

"Well, I certainly thank the two of you for coming," said Rolfsen. "How long will you be in Kotor?"

"Three weeks," Bucky said. "A nice, long holiday for us. And yourself?"

"Oh, I have a summer home here," Rolfsen said. "So I imagine -- until September, perhaps. Possibly October."

"How lovely!" said Natasha. "Perhaps we'll run into you."

"Perhaps," Rolfsen said, favoring her with a sliver-thin smile, which she returned, all white teeth and huge, simpering hazel eyes. Bucky would have hated seeing her fawn like this, if he didn't know it was all an act. "Quite nice to meet you both. Anneliese and --"

"Peter," Buck supplied, reaching to shake Rolfsen's hand again. "I daresay you can be forgiven for remembering her name and not mine, sir. Such a pleasure."

"A pleasure," Natasha echoed, and then they made their retreat. "That's one way to ensure he remembers us," she said, once they were at a safe distance, snagging a glass of champagne as a waiter walked by with a tray. "Interrupting him, I mean."

"He was giving me every indication that he was bored," Bucky said. "I saved him." He picked up an hors d'ouevre and popped it in his mouth. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"God, I'm starving," Natasha said. "But I have a reputation to maintain, my darling."

Bucky nodded absently, looking at his watch. They had to stick around for at least another thirty or forty minutes before leaving could be considered respectable. More time to talk about their bullshit mining business, probably, and British politics, which were just absurd enough to be ridiculous -- like all politics, really. "It's too bad there's no dancing," he said.

"We wouldn't want to attract too much intention tonight anyway, would we," Natasha said.

"No, you're right," Bucky agreed. "But at least it would give us something to pass the time."

"Careful," Natasha said, smiling very slightly. "Someone might hear you." She lifted a hand and gave a small wave at one of the women she had been talking to earlier, and then feigned surprise when the woman beckoned her over. "You wouldn't want anyone to think you're not enjoying yourself."

"No," Bucky said, right into her ear, leaning down. "Of course not. Parties that are just an excuse for the wealthy to glad-hand each other -- precisely my idea of fun. Come along, your friend wants to talk to you."

"She's not my friend," Natasha said, just as quietly, smiling. She took his hand, and they walked across the ballroom.

+++

Now they played a waiting game. Really it was pretty simple, and Bucky had played the game a dozen times before, except that it had been more in earnest back then. The rules of getting somebody's interest were the same regardless of whether the person in question was a mark, or a girl you wanted to take dancing.

They had made their introduction, and the next step was to be seen by him again, just in passing. They wouldn't do it the next day, of course -- that was too much, too soon. Instead they'd focus on being exactly what they appeared to be -- tourists. All while observing, of course. All while watching and waiting.

It wasn't so bad. In fact, it wasn't bad at all. It was a lot more interesting than the vast majority of recon missions Bucky had been on, and the locale was a lot more friendly as well. He had to be careful: He and Natasha ended up getting a lot of sun, and while Natasha remained more or less the same color due to some combination of spray tan and judiciously-applied sunscreen, Bucky was starting to change color, sunscreen or no. And the masks didn't exactly tan along with him.

He missed Steve; that much he could be honest with himself about. Even back in the war, he had some experience with learning how to miss Steve, but it still felt like a fresh wound every time. It was some of the same things as it had been then, though. He missed feeling Steve's gaze on him, missed the wry, amused tone of Steve's voice, saying, "You dumbass." It was easy, in theory, to miss the idea of a person. In practice, missing every little detail of shared existence was much more difficult.

"You have a very clear 'zoning out' expression," Natasha said. When Bucky looked over at her, she held up a peanut M&M, and Bucky opened his mouth and held still so she could toss it in. "What are you thinking about?"

They were perched atop the sloping roof of one of the tallest buildings in the city, an excellent place from which to watch Rolfsen go about his day. The intervening four and a half days between the gala and now had given them a lot of information about him -- not just his habits, but who he met, where, and even some insight into the less upstanding half of his business. "My clothes," Bucky said after a moment. "I miss wearing my own clothes."

"God," Natasha said. "I thought I was making a joke when I called you vain, but I guess I wasn't."

"You realize that wearing padded suits in eighty-degree weather isn't exactly comfortable, right?" Bucky asked, but she wasn't wrong.

" _You_ realize that my tactical gear is literally a Spandex catsuit, right?" Natasha asked. "I know discomfort, trust me."

Bucky opened his mouth again, and Natasha tossed another M&M at him, but nailed him right in the forehead instead, which he knew had to be deliberate. "I was thinking about Steve," he said.

"Really?" Natasha asked. "It's been -- a week." She sounded more surprised than disdainful, though. Bucky looked at her and shrugged, and then looked back down toward the street as he caught a flash of movement.

"He's on the move," Bucky said, and they shifted slightly, both of them fixing their binoculars on him.

"What's on the tablet?" Natasha asked, and Bucky tried to focus in closer, adjusting in tiny increments.

"I can't tell," he said. "It looks like -- chemical molecular diagrams or something. There's something there that seems like it could be corporate branding. But I can't read it."

Natasha grunted, shifting closer, and Bucky gave her his binoculars and put his hands on her waist to move her into position so she could get a look. "I can't read it either," she said. "Your eyes are better than mine, I can barely see anything."

She handed Bucky back his binoculars and lifted her own again, watching Rolfsen get into his car and drive away. Once the car had disappeared around the corner -- Rolfsen was off to his afternoon glass of wine while he went over the day's figures -- she sat back, leaning the binoculars up against the bell tower next to them. "I think it's about time for Peter and Anneliese to run into Mr. Rolfsen again," she said.

+++

They went back to the hotel and changed into Peter and Anneliese's clothing, and then they went for a leisurely evening stroll. It just so happened that their route took them past one of Rolfsen's three favorite restaurants. He seemed to keep them on a rotating schedule and had been cycling through them for the past four days they'd been observing him.

Tonight's restaurant had the most local flavor of any of them, if you could call it that. It was more this sort of -- tasteful appropriation of local flavor, carefully curated for the discerning (moneyed) eye, which Bucky had learned to recognize in New York. But it had one very definite thing going for it that worked in his and Natasha's favor: There was dancing.

They got a table and ordered some dinner -- Natasha always ordered salads, picked at them, and then inevitably had to get room service at the hotel because she was starving when they got back -- and watched the musicians set up. Rolfsen came in toward the end of the meal, and it gave them an excuse to order dessert. Natasha looked at it with poorly-disguised hunger, but ate only the fruit garnish.

Rolfsen had seen them sitting there but had spared them only an unconcerned glance, which made sense. They weren't very interesting yet. And really it wasn't Bucky that seemed to interest him at all, it was Natasha. She was wearing a tasteful white sheath dress tonight which reminded Bucky of Pepper, and her hair was loose, falling in long smooth waves nearly down to the small of her back.

The musicians started to play. The troupe had two professional -- or semi-professional, who knew -- dancers with them, who danced the first couple of rounds to warm up the crowd. It was a pretty lukewarm crowd, too. Each song finished to only sparse applause.

"Remember to pull your punches out there," Natasha said, very low, finishing her glass of wine, and then, louder, "Peter, come on, won't you?"

"Really, darling, I'm just trying to have a nice dinner --" said Bucky, but he got up and allowed himself to be pulled out into the middle of the room. They'd both had about three of glasses of wine, which would have been enough to at least make the average person tipsy. Tipsy enough to dance in a restaurant with a bunch of people they'd probably never see again. It was a funny little conceit, Bucky thought, and he'd played the reverse of it back in the day -- drink enough to make people think you're drunk enough to dance, even if you would dance stone cold sober anyway.

The music started up and the professional dancers stood off to the side a bit so that Bucky and Natasha could have some room. "I don't know about this," said Bucky, laughing, and then he and Natasha tried a few steps, and got into a rhythm, and from there they were off.

He knew what Natasha had meant, asking him to pull his punches; Peter and Anneliese were hobbyists. They didn't have the muscle memory, the discipline, or, frankly, the talent that either Natasha or Bucky had. It was kind of fun, though, pretending to be a worse dancer than he was. It gave him something interesting to concentrate on, being slightly off-time, making all of his movements just a little sloppy.

When the song ended -- maybe three minutes, not very long -- there was a much more enthusiastic round of applause, and Natasha pulled away, laughing and fanning herself with one hand, her other on her hip. She was beaming, practically glowing with happiness, and even if Bucky knew it was mostly fake, it was still contagious. He clapped a bit himself and spun, facing the sea of diners. "Isn't anyone else going to dance?" he asked, "Come on now, be brave!"

A few more couples got up and came over, and Bucky took off his jacket and went and put it at their table, and then came back to Natasha, who was moving her hair around and adjusting her shoes. "Don't tell me you're tired after just one!" he said.

"A little," she giggled back to him in return, but didn't resist when he pulled her in a second time, leaning up to plant a sweet kiss on his mouth. "One or two more," she said into his ear. "We've got his attention."

Bucky smiled. "Of course we have," he said, and then pretended surprise when the band started up again, and had to count himself and Natasha in clumsily.

Two more songs later and then they went and sat back down, had another glass of wine, paid their bill, and went to leave. Bucky didn't ask Natasha about Rolfsen; he trusted that if she'd said he was watching, he had been. And as they went out into the cooler night air, Bucky with his jacket slung over his shoulder, Rolfsen was there, having a cigarette. "Lovely dancing in there," he said to them.

"Oh, thank you!" said Natasha. "Mr. Rolfsen, it's a pleasure to see you again."

"Yes, a pleasure," said Rolfsen. "Anneliese and Peter, wasn't it? Davies?"

"Yes, sir," Bucky said, shaking Rolfsen's hand. "You have a good memory! Have you been to this restaurant before?"

"Certainly," Rolfsen said. "I admit it's one of my favorites, but usually there isn't such a crowd on the dance floor. I believe you livened the place up a bit."

Natasha laughed, ducking her head. "Well, we've been having lessons," she said. "It's one of the few things to do in Bismarck, and I couldn't let him pass up the opportunity to test out our skills!"

"Of course not," Bucky said fondly. "And she _does_ love it."

"You're very good," Rolfsen said, talking more to Natasha than Bucky.

"Do you really think so?" Natasha said. "All I can think of is all the mistakes I'm making! But Peter always says that no-one else can tell. I just never believed him."

"To me it looks like a lot of complicated footwork that I could never manage," Rolfsen said. "Cigarette, either of you?"

"I've given up," said Bucky, and Natasha shook her head, and said, "But thank you."

"Very good, very good," Rolfsen said. "Well, I'll leave you to it."

"It was lovely to see you again," Natasha said. "Mr. Rolfsen. I hope we'll run into each other soon!"

"Enjoy the rest of your evening," Bucky said, and Natasha turned to give Rolfsen a little wave over her shoulder as they walked away down the cobblestone path.

+++

"Consider the bait taken," Natasha said.

Bucky nodded, stripping off his shirt and starting to undo the mesh fabric from around his arm. "Hook, line, and sinker," he agreed. Natasha came over and he felt her hands on his shoulder, helping pull the material away. She had small hands. Callused fingers, but softer palms. She made a noise at him before she stepped away, and he twisted his head to raise an eyebrow at her.

"It covers up the scars too," she said. "I guess I didn't think about that. It's kind of uncanny seeing you take it off."

"Yeah," Bucky said. "It goes all the way up, although at the point that somebody was taking my shirt off in this disguise, I think they'd already have figured out they weren't getting exactly what they signed up for."

"What would give it away first?" Natasha asked. "The rock-hard biceps, or the six-pack abs?" She smirked at him, ruffling the back of his hair and then turning around so he could unzip her dress.

She ordered room service and the two of them settled down to watch Montenegrin tv. Bucky wasn't sure exactly what the language was, if it was Serbian or Montenegrin -- or what Montenegrin really was -- but he could barely understand it. It was kind of amusing, though, trying to work backward from Russian, which was the only Slavic language he really spoke, to figure out what was going on. Eventually he and Natasha just started making up a plot for the television show they were watching, a police procedural.

His phone rang after about an hour, and he looked at in surprise to see Steve's face (he had been in the middle of a sneeze when Bucky took that particular picture) popping up. "Hey," he said, answering the phone. "Isn't it the middle of the night there?"

"It's five-thirty in the morning," Steve said. He sounded sleepy. "I just woke up. I thought I'd call."

"Five-thirty is early even for you," Bucky said, pressing the Face Time button, watching Steve squint at him in the early morning light and then smile. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," Steve said. "It's hard to sleep without you here. I feel bad for giving you such a hard time about it when I was gone on that mission with Sam and Natasha last year." He rubbed his hand over his face. "Sam's here. He's in the guest room. I figured it was dumb to make him get a hotel."

"Yeah, it is dumb," Bucky agreed. "You guys go to that thing at the Guggenheim?"

"Not yet," Steve said. "I thought I'd wait until you were back. I like going to museums with you."

"Only because I don't know ass from elbow when it comes to art," Bucky accused.

"No," Steve said, laughing, "because you like it even though you don't know much about it. Besides, you know plenty. You know enough. If you had to study art to be able to appreciate it I don't think it'd be worth much at all."

"Don't let any art critics hear you saying that," Bucky said. "You don't want any new scandals on your hands."

"Hey, that reminds me," Steve said. "The upside of you not being here is that the photographers are following me a lot less. I guess I'm just not as interesting on my own."

"I could have told you that," Bucky said, grinning, watching Steve grin back at him. "I'm sure there'll be some gossip rag running photos of you and Sam, wondering if you're cheating on me when I get back, though."

"No doubt," Steve sighed. "Speaking of, how's the mission?"

"Speaking of what?" Bucky asked. "Speaking of you cheating on me, speaking of gossip rags, speaking of Sam? The mission's fine. Things are moving along. I think we've got him hooked now, so it's just time to reel him in."

"Is this a person we're talking about, or a particularly big fish?" Steve asked.

Bucky glanced at Natasha, and she shrugged. "I wouldn't put sentient mutant fish-people out of the realm of possibility," she said.

"Nothing's out of the realm of possibility," Bucky said. "It's just a matter of figuring out how to suspend disbelief long enough to deal with it."

Steve stretched and grunted, nodding, and then sat up. "Okay," he said. "I gotta have some coffee before I go running with Sam. I just felt like talking to you. Will you call me again soon, when you get a chance?"

"Sure," Bucky said. "I'll make sure it's four in the morning there, so I'm keeping you sharp."

"You're always looking out for me," Steve said. "It's sweet. Okay, I'm hanging up now. I love you. And goodbye to Natasha, too."

"What, I don't get an I love you?" Natasha said, smirking.

Bucky snorted. "Have a nice run," he said to Steve. "I love you too."

Steve gave him a familiar, affectionate crinkly-eyed smile and a little wave, and hung up. Bucky put his phone away and sat quietly for a while.

"You really do miss him," Natasha said.

"What, did you think I was lying?" Bucky said.

"No, I just -- don't know how the two of you survived without each other for so long," Natasha said.

"One of us was frozen and the other one was brainwashed," Bucky replied wryly, raising an eyebrow at her. She punched him in the shoulder.

"Speaking of the paparazzi," she said, "a few weeks ago one of the websites had some pictures of you and Steve running through the park, and it looked like they had photoshopped his dick to be about twice its size. The headline was something like 'Captain America's packing heat.'"

"Wait, what?" said Bucky. "I have to see this." Natasha reached for her laptop and pulled up the website, scrolling through the "Steve Rogers" tag until she found the photos. She handed the laptop to Bucky, and Bucky put his tongue in his cheek as he looked.

"What?" Natasha said after half a minute.

Bucky shook his head, thinking about how to put this. "I don't think it's Photoshop," he said.

Natasha took the laptop back, blinked at the photos for a moment, and then decisively closed the laptop again. "I feel like I didn't actually want to know that," she said.

"Well, you dug that hole for yourself," said Bucky.

"I did," Natasha agreed. "It doesn't mean it's any more comfortable down here, though."

+++

They spent the next week and a half watching Rolfsen, and running into him here and there. It wasn't hard; Kotor was very small, especially compared to the vast, bustling mass of New York. He was basically around whatever corner they wanted to find him.

Getting closer was the hard part. Of the two of them, he was distinctly more interested in Natasha, which was predictable, but made Bucky's job more difficult. He could only play the bumbling idiot husband to a certain degree, before it came off as insincere, and, frankly, stupid. Which Peter wasn't meant to be. He was a bit of a buffoon, sure, but he was no clown.

They managed to get themselves invited to have dinner with Rolfsen, at another one of the seaside cafes he liked to frequent. By now Bucky thought he and Natasha had been to pretty much every restaurant in town, but watching the sunset from the patio was nice regardless. He pulled out Natasha's seat for her, his hand on the small of her back, guiding her, watching her smile at Rolfsen. For her part, she seemed to be playing it politely oblivious, which was probably the best move. Anneliese was beautiful, knew it, and worked hard at it -- she wouldn't be blind to her appearance's effects, she just would have learned to ignore them when necessary, by now.

Rolfsen ordered a bottle of wine to split between them, and Bucky made sure that he drank before Natasha did, knowing that a little paranoia never hurt, and that his metabolism would neutralize anything that might be in it before hers did. It seemed fine, though. Very dry, which wasn't exactly his taste.

While they ate, they made small talk about their vacation: What had they done? How were they liking it? Their favorite restaurants? Bucky watched Rolfsen watching Natasha, her little fluttering movements, the way she tilted her head, with some interest. He didn't know if Rolfsen genuinely thought he had a chance, or if he just didn't care. "And how's your business, Mr. Rolfsen?" he asked, somewhat apropos of nothing, hoping to deflect Rolfsen's attention.

"Oh, Peter," Natasha said admonishingly. "That's so boring. Nobody likes to talk about business at dinner."

"It's quite all right," Rolfsen said. "Business is going very well, thank you. You're a savvy man, I'm sure you've read -- we have a few very promising drugs in trial right now, which of course I cannot talk about, and we've acquired several very lucrative subsidiaries over the past year."

"I've always been curious about drug manufacture," Bucky said. "It seems quite different to what my family works in! Mining is a very dirty business, you see, very gritty. And drug manufacture is all about cleanliness, precision, yes?"

"Ah, yes and no," Rolfsen said. "Certainly the laboratory environment requires a high level of cleanliness, of course. But not all of it is so sterile."

"I think it would be so interesting to see," Natasha said. "When I was young I used to harbor these secret fantasies of becoming a nurse when I grew up -- I thought it was very romantic, the idea of making people better. But it turned out that I didn't have the stomach for it, unfortunately."

Rolfsen looked at Natasha, and Bucky could very clearly see the greedy glint in his eye. "I'd be happy to give you a tour of one of our facilities, if you like," he said.

"Really?" Natasha said, delighted, looking at Bucky.

"I'm afraid it's probably much less interesting than what you have in mind," said Rolfsen, "but certainly. How much longer are you in the country?"

"Another week," said Bucky. "We have no plans, though. You name a day and a time, and we'd be thrilled."

"It will probably take me a couple of days to arrange things," Rolfsen said. "They will need to prepare for visitors, of course. But -- where are you staying? Perhaps I can call your hotel?"

"Oh yes," Natasha said. "Or -- here, Peter, give him your cell phone number."

"Right, right," said Bucky, rifling in his jacket for a pen and writing it down on a napkin. "Although my service can be a bit spotty up here."

"Excellent," said Rolfsen, tucking the number into his jacket, flagging down the waiter as she walked past. "Please, allow me to pay for dinner."

"We couldn't," said Natasha, reaching out and laying one of her hands over Rolfsen's. Bucky shot her a sharp look. "That's too generous, Mr. Rolfsen."

"Really, I insist," Rolfsen said.

"Well, we'll get next, then," Bucky said, letting Rolfsen pay. "It's been a pleasure, sir. I do look forward to seeing the facility."

"Very good," Rolfsen said, standing up, buttoning his jacket, reaching out to shake Bucky's hand. "Have a lovely evening, the two of you."

"Thank you!" Natasha called. "We will!"

+++

"Laying it on a little thick there, weren't you?" Bucky asked, once they were back at the hotel and Natasha was tucking into a huge plate of chicken. She glanced up at him and shrugged.

"It worked," she said.

"Yeah, but I'm supposed to be your husband." Bucky said. "Flirting with him right in front of me doesn't exactly paint me in the most flattering light."

"Maybe we have an open relationship," Natasha said, her mouth half full. She opened up her laptop with her free hand and pulled up satellite imagery of the Montenegrin division of Rolfsen's company. "He could call you at any time, we better be ready for this."

"I was born ready," Bucky said, which was distinctly untrue, sitting down next to her and taking a piece of chicken from her plate. Once they had gone into the building, the timeline would probably speed up quite a lot. When they knew where the weapons were, and how to access them, they could get the job done very quickly.

"It looks like there's only one entrance road," Natasha said, indicating it on the screen. She pulled up another window with the corporation's website, and Google Maps. "What it seems like to me, though, is that the terrain is rough but not impassable."

"It's all mountains, right?" Bucky said.

"Foothills, in this area," Natasha said. "Heavily forested in most places. Most of them already have some paths, for hiking, herding. If we make it over this ridge, there's a road we can see from the hills, which we can follow over to -- here." She glanced at him, and smiled. "You and I have both been through a lot worse conditions."

"No doubt," Bucky said. "All right, so then, we reach this village, do we have an extraction team waiting?"

"Not there, but from there I can send them the signal, if we need them. Ideally we'll be able to make it across the Serbian border."

"What is it, maybe ten miles?" Bucky asked. "Sure, we can make that."

Natasha nodded. "From there, we get a bus to Novi Pazar, and there's a plane waiting for us there, to take us back to London."

"Seems too easy," Bucky said, slanting a smile at her.

"It is too easy," Natasha said. "The complicated part will be getting in and out of the facility. But like I said: You and I have both seen worse."

"That's actually not very comforting, you know?" Bucky said.

"I know," Natasha said, smirking, closing the computer.

+++

Rolfsen left Bucky a voicemail message the day after next telling them he'd send a car for them at ten the next morning, and they'd head to the facility. His tone was dry, clipped, almost perfunctory. They hadn't planned it this way, but Rolfsen was in this for Natasha, not for Bucky.

There was a little more preparation in hand this time. Earpieces, of course, and tiny cameras that could be controlled with the blink of an eyelid or the twitch of the finger. Both of them wore sophisticated pressure-sensing devices on the inside of their right wrists, Natasha's concealed by a tasteful bracelet, Bucky's by his watch. The devices would allow them to capture a digital reading of Rolfsen's palmprint on contact, if it turned out they needed it.

Bucky realized halfway down to the foyer of the hotel that he should have called Steve, or texted him, anything to let him know they were entering the next phase of the mission, where they might have to go dark for a while. But now there wasn't time, so he'd just have to hope this went quickly.

"Game face on," Natasha said, slipping him a quick grin that was all Natasha under the mask of Anneliese, and Bucky smirked back at her, nodding.

The car was waiting for them. Not black, like Bucky had expected, but a sort of brushed beige-silver. Rolfsen wasn't driving; he was in the front passenger seat, and there was plenty of room for Natasha and Bucky in the back.

"Good morning," Rolfsen said, taking Natasha's hand to help her in and then leaning over to shake Bucky's hand too. "I trust you slept well?"

"Very well," Bucky said. "Thank you. The sound of the ocean, I find it very soothing."

"Yes, me too," Natasha agreed, smiling.

"Well, it won't be a very long ride," Rolfsen said. "Feel free to sit back and relax; there's water if you would like any."

"I'm afraid if I have anything else to drink this morning we'll have to make an unexpected pit stop," Bucky said, unbuttoning his jacket. "I may have had a bit too much coffee."

"I told you to stop after the second cup," Natasha chastised, and then they all laughed in that polite, forced way that the situation demanded, and the car drove on.

True to what Rolfsen had said, it was only a couple of hours’ drive. The turn-off to the facility was immediately recognizable from the satellite photos Natasha had shown Bucky. Like she'd said: A single road leading both in and out.

The building itself was unimpressive. It was fairly flat, a sprawling complex that spread out into the shelter of the foothills, most of it all one story, with off-grey walls and mirrored windows. It certainly did give the impression of cleanliness and sterility.

Rolfsen's driver parked the car right out front and came around to let them out, and Natasha stood smoothing down her skirt and then looped her arm through Bucky's as Rolfsen led the way into the building. He turned briefly to glance back at the road they'd come down, the gate and the twinned security towers. It looked like there was only one guard in each.

Once they were inside, Rolfsen took them past reception, which was very ordinary-looking, almost like a doctor's waiting room, and through a door which required a retinal scan and a thumbprint. It sealed neatly shut behind them with a quiet whuff, and a smiling young woman came to meet them, holding a clipboard. There were certain areas, she explained, where they'd need to wear a mask and gloves, and it was important to follow all instructions in order to assure that the facility remained appropriately sterile. It wasn't, she said brightly, your ordinary tour, since they were here with Mr. Rolfsen.

Bucky's brain divided itself in two in a way he'd learned to do very neatly as the Winter Soldier; on one hand, part of him was paying close attention to the tour guide, what she was saying, and occasionally responding appropriately. But the other half of him, the calculating, cold part, was watching Rolfsen, cataloging the layout of the facility, the security measures necessary.

He had been wrong about one thing for sure: The facility wasn't as flat as it looked from the outside. In fact, from what he could tell, they had come down a few flights of stairs and were now a couple of stories underground. Something about that discomfited him, though he couldn't place the feeling.

They were being led past labs full of people in anonymous white coats and face masks, peering in at them through big plexiglass windows. Rooms of computers, people busily typing at them, microscopes, pipettes. It all looked very much almost like an infomercial, with a big banner slapped across the bottom: SCIENCE!

"Oh, yes," Rolfsen said. "That reminded me -- Mrs. Davies, there's something I believe would very much be to your interest. May I show you?"

Natasha glanced back at Bucky, still perfectly in character, her hands neatly clasped in front of her. "I don't see why not," she said. Part of Bucky was thinking, _don't let them separate us_ , but he shouldn't be worried about Natasha; Natasha could handle herself.

"Of course, go ahead, dear," Bucky said, waving her on. Rolfsen unlocked another door and led Natasha inside, and Bucky keenly watched her go.

"Excuse me, Mr. Davies?" said the tour guide, touching his arm. "If you'll come with me, please."

Bucky wanted to say no, but he didn't want to break character. There was no sense in blowing cover now, when they'd already come this far, and Peter had no reason to suspect anything other than possibly that Rolfsen was about to take his wife somewhere and sweep her off her feet. "Sorry," he said. "In my own world here."

He followed the smiling young woman down the corridor, and to the left. "Right here," she said, "if you'll direct your attention, please."

She opened a door, and Bucky turned to face thirty armed men, less than ten feet away. Immediately he braced himself, feet apart, left arm out in front of himself, but it didn't matter. Hands grabbed him -- dozens of hands, yanking him in.

He threw a punch, felt someone's orbital bone shatter against his fist. Lashed out with his feet, got them free for a second. Natasha's voice in his ear, quiet, insistent. "Soldier, if you can hear me, we're blown. Repeat: We're blown. Abort the mission. Abort."

Someone yanking his head back by his hair. A needle finding his neck, the tiny, sharp pinch of it. It hit his bloodstream immediately, turning his limbs heavy and sluggish, his breathing labored. "Can you hear me?" Natasha was saying. "Abort! Abort the mission! Get out of there!"

A gun butt hit him on the temple, sending a shock of white through his vision, and his knees went out. Hands were still on him, all over him, grasping his arms, his legs, his clothing. His eyelids were heavy. Blackness was welling up behind his eyes, seeping in through the edges of his vision. He didn't have the energy even to fight to stay awake.

Natasha's voice, distant now, in his ear. The sensation of being pulled, the toes of his shoes dragging along the floor. Then: Emptiness. Nothing.

+++

He swam back up to consciousness to find himself in a featureless white room, with no windows and no visible doors. He was naked, and a little cold, but sweating feverishly nonetheless. His hands were cuffed tightly behind him, and secured with a strap around his waist that held them in place. They hadn't bothered securing his legs, but it didn't matter; whatever they'd given him meant he could barely muster enough strength to lift his head, or push against the handcuffs, much less get his legs underneath himself.

He managed to shift onto his side and did his best to grind the metal of his left arm against the metal of the cuffs, but even that much effort left him breathing heavily, his vision swimming. He was incredibly thirsty. Thirst was often a side-effect of sedatives.

A panel in the wall opened seamlessly, and he felt his entire body go tense and trembling, his heart rate skyrocketing until it felt like someone was bouncing a basketball against the inside of his sternum. He was prepared to see Rolfsen, but instead a younger man came in. He was of above-average height, wearing plain black combat trousers and a black t-shirt, in athletically fit physical condition. He was blond, blue-eyed. Good-looking, in a sort of forgettable Scandinavian way.

"You're awake," he said to Bucky. "How did you like that little cocktail? One of the formulations left for us by your previous handlers, of course. And we're very grateful to them for it. It seems to be very effective."

Bucky lifted his head and tried to work up enough saliva to spit at him, but couldn't manage. The young man walked a little closer and looked down at him disdainfully. "You didn't really think you'd gotten in so easily, did you?" he asked Bucky, smiling. "You ought to know better than to think we'd ever stop looking for you. You were one of our greatest successes, after all."

He walked away again, folding his arms and watching Bucky. "And one of our greatest failures, but I must say I truly look forward to rectifying that."

Something clicked into place in Bucky's brain, and he realized: This guy was the one they meant to be his handler. They had tried -- god, dozens of handlers, before stumbling on the pathetically obvious fact of which ones Bucky would naturally obey better, regardless of his intentions. The young man had a small, cruel smile on his face, and Bucky knew from looking at it that he wasn't one of the ones who would go easy.

He tried to push himself away, his feet slipping against the floor. "Ah-ah," said the young man. "You know better than that. Or you should. Did you forget?"

There was nowhere to go, anyway, just another blank wall behind him. Bucky scanned the room frantically, looking for any way to escape. Natasha had sounded so calm; she had to have gotten out, and -- she would come back for him. She wouldn't just leave him here. She would know, she would come back. He twisted, putting his weight onto his left shoulder, grinding his wrists against the cuffs.

"I can guess what you're thinking," the man said. "And it's pathetic. Do you know how long it's been? You were unconscious for eighteen hours; almost an entire day. She left you here. She's not coming back." He snorted. "You really thought you could trust the Black Widow? You're stupider than your file says you are. You thought you could depend on _her_?"

He came closer again, and crouched down, getting more on Bucky's level. Bucky stared at him, couldn't look away for some reason, even though he desperately wanted to. His wrist ached where the metal of the cuff ground into it. "Do you know what the best part of this is?" said the man. "I think you do, but let me tell you anyway: I can do whatever I want with you right now, and it doesn't matter, because it's all going to disappear when we wipe you for the first time. And I should tell you -- they've improved the process significantly. Of course, it's also significantly more painful for the subject, but I believe I've read that you have _quite_ a pain threshold."

He reached out and grabbed Bucky's ankle, dragging Bucky closer, albeit with some difficulty, because Bucky was probably at least forty pounds heavier than him. His other hand reached for Bucky's chin, and he squeezed, painfully, his fingers digging into Bucky's jaw. "I can do _whatever_ I want with you, and you'll still kneel and lick my boots if I tell you to. Because you're a good dog, aren't you? I think so. I think you will be."

Bucky tried to slur out _fuck you_ , but his tongue was dead weight in his mouth. His intent must have been clear enough, though, because the man laughed and slapped him on the cheek, then abruptly let go of him, sending him sprawling backwards.

"Oh no," he said. "I don't think so. I think it'll be the other way 'round."

He began to undo his belt, and Bucky scrabbled wildly against the floor, managing to push himself back up against the wall. "Like I told you: I've read your file," the man said, slowly pulling the belt from its loops. "I've read all about your very special talents, and you certainly _are_ talented. I must say I wondered, how much is the enhancements, and how much of it is training?"

He was unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, leisurely, almost casual. "I know about your -- _relationship_ with Captain Rogers, as well," he said. "It's very difficult not to -- so much news coverage. You are very shameless! I confess I wondered if you were queer _before_ we reshaped you, or if perhaps it was just a side-effect." He shrugged, tilting his head. "I suppose it doesn't matter, but it does make it more interesting, if you enjoy it."

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth as much as he was able. "I thought I'd start with your mouth," said the man. "There's video footage of some of the early sessions, and you used to beg _quite_ a lot." He grabbed Bucky's ankle again, and turned Bucky onto his stomach. "But I think I've changed my mind."

 _Go,_ Bucky thought to himself. _Go away, turn it off._ He kept his eyes closed tightly and tried to focus on his own body, his shaking limbs and rattling breath, but as always, he couldn't make himself do it. It had never been something he had control over, and wishing to not be present had rarely done him any good in the past. He was crying, a little, tears sliding out from under his closed eyelids, and he had enough presence of mind left to think that he was glad, at least, that he wasn't making any sounds.

There was a noise -- a bang, and then a crackle of electricity. Bucky went as still as he could manage, and lay there on the floor trying to muffle his own breaths. Hands touched him, but they were -- familiar hands. Small, soft palms, callused fingers.

Natasha turned him over. Her hair was pulled back, and she was wearing her black catsuit. "I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner," she said. It was something that she might have said as a joke, but she wasn't joking.

"Can you look at me?" she said, and he managed. She blew out a breath. "Your pupils are the size of black holes," she said. "Do you think you can walk?"

Bucky managed to shake his head, and she frowned and sat him up, scooting around behind him and fiddling with the cuffs. There was another crackle of electricity, and they fell away. Bucky tried not to look at the young man where he was lying in the center of the room, unconscious or dead. Bucky hoped he was dead.

Natasha rummaged in her utility belt and came up with a pre-loaded syringe. "We need to get out of here," she said. "I can give you this to give you a little kick-start." She started to reach toward him, and then abruptly stopped.

Her face took on almost a grave seriousness, and she looked up again, meeting Bucky's eyes. "Is it okay if I give you this?" she asked.

Bucky looked at her -- her green eyes big and earnest, the corners of her mouth downturned, her hand very still in the air, holding the syringe. He had stopped crying, but in that instant he felt like he could have started again. "Yeah," he managed, around his thick tongue. He bent his head forward to rest against her shoulder, and she pressed the injector to his neck.

"Okay," she said. He felt the drugs start to kick in about fifteen seconds later, a tingling prickling sensation in his limbs. Some of his strength returned, and he lifted his head again. Natasha was still looking at him, and she reached forward to wipe tears and sweat from his face with her thumbs. "You need clothes," she said.

She looked at the man lying face-down on the floor, and Bucky shook his head and said, "Not his."

"Right," she said, standing up, and then planting her weight and offering Bucky her hand so he could pull himself up. He did, unsteadily, and leaned against her. She put her arm around his waist and braced him, then started across the room.

She paused and gave the body of the young man a kick. "I did come back for him," she said. "I would never leave him here." And then she continued with Bucky toward the invisible door, which opened up under her touch, and let them back out into a featureless empty corridor.

+++

There was a locker room, where Natasha found Bucky a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. He was somewhat less woozy at this point, enough that he managed to make all of his arms and legs cooperate enough to put the clothing on without incident.

"He showed me where they keep the chemical weapons," Natasha said. "It was a power play; he was planning to kill me, so he wanted to show me my failure before he did it. It didn't happen that way."

Her expression was hard. "Where are they?" Bucky asked her.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "We need to get out of here. The mission doesn't matter anymore; we can't get to them."

Bucky exhaled, but didn't say anything else. He wasn't much help and he knew it; he mostly leaned against the wall with shaky knees and tried not to throw up, watching Natasha dispatch the guards and personnel that they came across. She led him through a maze of service corridors, up a dusty stairwell, and finally out, onto the roof. The sunlight made him squint, and gave him an almost-instant headache.

She started to head toward the back of the building, but something caught her eye, and Bucky followed her gaze. It was Rolfsen, along with a couple of armed security guards, standing near the security gate entrance of the complex. Her fingers clenched on the rifle she was holding.

"We were right about the biometric controls," she said. "Nobody but Rolfsen has access to the room where the samples are stored."

"They have to have his handprint and retinal scans on file," Bucky said hoarsely.

Natasha nodded. "There's a failsafe built in, too, though. If his heart rate drops below a certain point, the room is rigged to detonate." She looked at Bucky, at the rifle, at Rolfsen, and then back again. "I can't make that shot," she said quietly.

Bucky's mind calculated for him: Distance, angle, wind speed and direction. "I can make it," he said.

"You have god knows what running through your veins right now," said Natasha, "and you can barely stand up. If you miss, and they spot us, we have no cover."

"I won't miss," said Bucky.

Natasha just looked at him. "Natasha," said Bucky. "I can make the shot. Give me the fucking gun."

She didn't say anything else, but handed it over, and Bucky lined up, steadying the gun against his left hand. He took a deep breath and forced his hands to stop shaking, a mechanism he'd never understood, but which had served him well. He exhaled, and inhaled again.

Once he was breathing in a steady, calm rhythm, he moved his finger to the trigger. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Pull the trigger on the end of the third exhale. Rolfsen's head exploded, and he crumpled like a rag doll. Before the other two men could spot them, Bucky moved incrementally, and shot them too.

He sat up, and handed the gun back to Natasha. "Let's go," he said.

+++

Forty-five minutes later, they were across the border, approaching a small Serbian town. Bucky was listing heavily, leaning on Natasha, who was sweating herself -- she'd had to more or less drag Bucky along and had carried most of his weight for many of the uphill stretches. She slipped out from under his arm as they came toward a gas station, waiting until she was sure he was going to stay on his feet to pick up her pace, darting ahead of him.

When he made it to the doorway of the gas station, he could hear Natasha inside, shouting in Serbian at the clerk until he handed her a phone. She came outside a minute later, carrying a couple of bottles of water, and sat down in the untrimmed grass next to the building.

Bucky wanted to sit down too, but he was afraid if he did, he wouldn't be able to stand up again. Natasha looked up at him, and offered him one of the bottles of water. He shook his head; if he put anything in his stomach right now, he knew it'd just come back up. "You need to drink this," Natasha said. "It's been almost twenty-four hours since you've had water."

He shook his head again, and she sighed, setting the bottle down next to herself instead. Bucky stood and swayed on his feet, staring at nothing, until he heard the racket of an approaching helicopter.

"That's our ride," Natasha said, getting to her feet and slipping under Bucky's arm again. She waved to the helicopter, and it set down neatly in the pasture, rotors still spinning as she and Bucky made their way over.

The pilot spoke Russian, and had the look of someone ex-military. Bucky couldn't guess how Natasha knew him, if this was a favor or a professional connection, but he didn't care. He let Natasha buckle him in, and leaned back, closing his eyes. The helicopter took off again after a moment, and the rattle of it made him grit his teeth. He could feel the vibrations in his _bones_.

He leaned out the open side of the helicopter and vomited, watching the liquid arc out into the air, coughing.

The pilot looked over in alarm. "Is he all right?" he asked Natasha.

"I'm fine," Bucky said. He hadn't spoken Russian in a long time. It felt strange on his tongue. "I'm wonderful." He spat, hanging out of the helicopter as the air whipped past his head, stinging his cheeks, and then pulled himself back in. He wiped his face with one hand, leaned against the seat, and closed his eyes again.

It was a bumpy ride, and he couldn't pass out, as much as he desperately wanted to. After an hour or so, they landed, at what seemed to be an ex-military airfield of some kind that was clearly in disrepair now. Probably some former Soviet station that had once been the height of progress and technology. For all Bucky knew, he had been here before; but between the cracks in the asphalt, the abandoned tower, and the inconsistent holes that still existed in his memory, it was a mystery.

A small plane was waiting for them. It didn't have insignia, and Bucky glanced at Natasha. "Tony," she said. "I don't know if it's his, or if he just called in a favor. Maybe he bought the airline. Who knows."

She thanked the helicopter pilot, and Bucky managed to give him a wave, and they hobbled across the tarmac together. A very young, very pretty flight attendant came down the ramp when she saw them. She was dressed impeccably in a smart skirt suit that Bucky couldn't help but relate to Pepper, and her eyes were large and round in surprise.

Natasha mostly hauled Bucky up the stairway, and put him down in the first seat she came to, putting all the armrests up so he could stretch out if he wanted. He was shaking again, sweating, but freezing cold, goose bumped all over. It was probably a good sign, it probably meant that his body was forcing the sedative out. But it didn't feel good. It felt like the worst sickness of your life, something you might die from. Something he could remember from before the serum, once.

"Let me get a hot towel," said the stewardess, alarmed. She came back with it a moment later, and gently dabbed at Bucky's face. It was the opposite of what he wanted, but he couldn't find it in himself to tell her to stop.

He didn't have to. Natasha reached forward and removed the stewardess's hand. "Leave him alone," she said, and the stewardess blinked, straightening up. "Leave him alone," Natasha repeated, and then added, "please."

The woman looked slightly offended, but stepped away, and a moment later, after ducking in to make sure they both had their seat belts on, she said, "We'll be departing shortly. The captain anticipates it may be a rough takeoff, so please be prepared."

Natasha nodded, and Bucky didn't say anything, putting the hot towel over his eyes. The plane jostled and bumped along the runway, but made it into the sky just fine. When he took the towel off his face, Natasha was looking at him. "It's okay," she said. "You don't need to be awake anymore."

Bucky nodded, and even though he didn't think he'd be able to fall asleep, he drifted away anyway - or maybe it wasn't drifting. Maybe it was being pulled down.

+++

He woke up because they were landing in London. He could tell immediately that most of the drug had left his system; everything was clearer, although he wasn't sure if he liked it better that way.

It was good to be able to walk on his own, at the very least, though Natasha stuck by his side anyway. It felt strange, to be walking through the terminal with the other passengers, as if they were in a normal situation, when it was pretty obvious, considering that Bucky wasn't even wearing any shoes, that they weren't.

He saw Steve, even though he wasn't looking for him; Steve, in his blue nylon jacket, with a baseball cap pulled down low, arms folded, waiting in the arrivals area. He spotted Bucky and Natasha, but just stayed where he was until they reached him.

The closer Bucky got, the more obvious it became that Steve was angry, and not just _normal_ angry, like he was when he sometimes got fired up about little things, but really, really angry. "How could you let this happen?" he said to Natasha, without even saying anything to Bucky first. He grabbed her arm, as quick as a snake grabbing its prey. "How could you let this happen?"

Natasha shot a glance at Bucky, just a flash, and pulled her arm out of Steve's grasp. "Get your hands off me," she said. "I'm sorry, Steve, but I didn't know."

"You didn't know?" Steve asked, his voice rising. "You let him walk into a trap! You walked him _right_ into a trap. I saw _all_ of that, you _knew_ I was on comms --"

That was news to Bucky. Steve was saying something else, but Bucky tuned it out. "Steve," he said. Steve cut off mid-word, and turned to look at him, but the silence lasted only a second, before he started to yell at Natasha again. And he _was_ yelling, now, attracting the attention of everyone around them.

Bucky grabbed him by the chin. "Steve," he said, again, louder. "Fucking stop it. It's not her fault."

Steve opened his mouth, and Bucky tightened his grip, shaking his head. "Shut the fuck up," he said. "I don't want to do this. Do you understand me? We are not doing this. You don't get to take it out on her. We're _leaving_ , and we're going to go to a hotel, and you're going to cool your goddamn heels."

He let go of Steve's chin, and walked right past Steve, out toward the taxi stand. "Either you're coming or you're not," he said to Steve, and after a moment, Steve deflated, and followed him out, pointing him toward a black unmarked car waiting at the curb.

The ride was tense and silent, and when they go the hotel, Bucky could still see that Steve's blood was boiling, but frankly he had a lot more practice dealing with that than Natasha did, and was better-equipped to handle it, even now. The room had already been taken care of, and he was grateful for that, because he didn't know if he could stand the minutiae of everyday life right now.

"I'm taking a shower," he said to Steve, once they were in their room. Ordinarily he would have taken a moment to look around the place, admire the view. But he was covered in dried sweat, and he didn't want to be wearing these clothes, the clothes from the base, anymore.

He stood under the spray for a long time, and when he came out, Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands curled into fists on his knees. He went over to Steve, and Steve looked up at him for a moment, and then down, at the red ring of irritated skin the cuff had left on Bucky’s right wrist. Steve reached out to touch it.

"It's not her fault," Bucky said, after a moment.

Steve's jaw worked, clenching and unclenching. "She didn't know," Bucky said. "I didn't know. I saw all the intel too, and I didn't know. There was no way she could have known. And it sure as hell wasn't her that made me go on that mission. She didn't _make_ me do anything. I did it all myself."

"I," said Steve, and then stopped, his fingers circling Bucky's wrist, his thumb rubbing against the bruised skin right above Bucky's pulse point.

"Yeah, I know, you're mad," Bucky said. "You want to blame somebody. But you know it was me that made that choice. _I_ decided to go on the mission. Nobody made me do it. You taking that away from me?"

Steve shook his head mutely. "Okay," Bucky said. "So you want somebody to be mad at. And Rolfsen's not here for you to be mad at, and Hydra sure as hell isn't here either. So you want to be mad at Natasha, but I'm not gonna let you. You need somebody to be mad at? Then be mad at me."

Steve looked up at Bucky, and didn't say anything. "You know I love you," Bucky said. "But you're acting like a piece of shit."

That _did_ make Steve mad at Bucky, a fire that flared up behind his eyes. Bucky had never really understood that saying, _a fire in the eyes_ , until he'd met Steve. But it was there, some microexpression that Steve projected very clearly, that Bucky had learned to recognize the second he saw it.

It passed in a moment, though, and then Steve was grabbing him, pulling him in, burying his face against Bucky's stomach. "I told myself I'd never let anybody do anything like that to you again," he said, muffled.

"So what," Bucky said. "You didn't _let_ anything happen. It just happened."

He felt Steve tense, and Steve flipped them both bodily, so that Bucky was on his back on the bed, and then Steve was crawling up next to him. Bucky looked at him. Something strange reared its head inside him. "Hit me," he said.

"What?" said Steve. "Bucky, I don't -- it's fine, I don't need you to be my -- punching bag."

"I want you to," said Bucky.

"I'm -- not that mad," Steve said.

Bucky sat up on his elbows, got right in Steve's face. "I want you to," he repeated.

Steve stared at him for a moment, and then he slapped Bucky, open-handed, not very hard. It left Bucky's face stinging, but only faintly, a sting that faded in seconds. Bucky caught Steve's wrist and sucked Steve's thumb into his mouth, and then bit, hard, right at the base of it, so hard that he was sure it'd leave a bruise, and a neat ring of tooth-shaped impressions.

Steve jerked away, staring. " _Harder_ ," said Bucky. Steve pulled his hand back, looked at it for a second, and then he did let Bucky have it, straddling Bucky and slapping him across the face so hard that he saw stars for a second. Bucky's cock twitched.

"Is that what you wanted?" Steve asked, his voice rough.

"Yeah," Bucky said, breathless, and as soon as he'd said it, Steve bent down swiftly, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head, kissing him, hard. Bucky wrapped his legs around Steve and held on, grinding up against Steve's denim-clad thigh, groaning as he sucked on Steve's tongue.

Bucky got lost in it for a while, rubbing his hard cock against Steve's leg, letting Steve kiss him silly, feeling Steve's fingers flex against his wrists. Eventually, Steve pulled away so he could get his own shirt off, and when he let go of Bucky's arms, Bucky sat up and reached for his pants, reaching for the button and zip.

Steve yanked Bucky's hands away, and then grabbed Bucky's neck, right below his chin, his fingers touching the underside of Bucky's jaw. He got his pants and underwear off, and then he leaned in. "Look at me," he said, and Bucky did, remembering the last time it had happened like this -- Steve had been mad then, too, and it had been good for Bucky then, too, even if he wasn't sure why, or if he deserved to feel good at all.

Steve's hand on his neck held him still, and Steve fed his cock into Bucky's mouth, and Bucky let him, his eyelashes trembling, his hands by his sides where Steve had put them. Steve didn't stop until his cock was all the way in, and then his fingers _squeezed_ , just a little, a pressure that Bucky felt keenly against his racing pulse. He closed his mouth, sucked on Steve's cock, kept his eyes open until he couldn't anymore.

Steve's hand gave another warning squeeze, and Bucky's eyes fluttered open again. Looking up at Steve, he thought Steve didn't look angry, anymore. Just hungry. Just desperate.

Bucky groaned and pushed forward, trying to take Steve, impossibly, deeper. He sucked harder, working his tongue along the underside of Steve's cock, staring up at Steve as he pulled off and licked at just the head, smearing precome across the tip. Every line of Steve's body was tense, the hard muscles of his chest and stomach, his thighs. Bucky wanted to touch him more, but he knew right now he wasn't allowed.

He swallowed Steve back down again, shifting, trying to relieve some of the tension pooling in his belly. Steve's breathing was audible, now -- short, harsh breaths, almost gasping. But nothing like the high wheeze he'd used to make when he couldn't breathe before. Bucky looked up at him through his eyelashes and hummed, feeling himself flush a bit with pleasure.

Steve jerked, and said, "Fuck," and he came hard, shooting off into Bucky's mouth. His hand on Bucky's throat _squeezed_ again. Bucky closed his eyes, finally, and swallowed, and swallowed, and when Steve pulled his dick out, he licked his swollen lips, waiting for Steve to tell him what to do.

"Get on your stomach," Steve said. Bucky did, rolling over, lifting his ass in the air, even though he knew that there was no way Steve could get hard again _that_ fast. Steve grabbed ahold of him, arranging him -- hands above his head, legs spread just so. Bucky went where Steve wanted him, pliant, manipulable.

There was a pause, where Steve wasn't touching Bucky at all. Bucky twisted his head around to look at Steve, just as Steve's hand landed on his ass with a sharp crack. Bucky yelped and dropped his head back down, arching his back. He was torn between wanting to rub his dick against the sheets, and hold it away so he could prolong this.

Steve slapped Bucky again, and then again after that. He had smacked Bucky's ass a hundred times before, even during sex, but that had been different. Those had been playful little blows. Stinging, but not truly painful. This was -- nothing like that. It hurt, but it felt -- Bucky liked it. He really liked it; his dick jerked against the sheets with every smack.

His ass felt hot with pain by the time Steve had finished, and he was panting into the pillows, his fingers clenching and unclenching above his head. Steve grabbed both cheeks of his ass, massaging them for a second while Bucky whimpered into the pillow, and then Bucky felt the touch of Steve's mouth at the small of his back.

The cooling trail of saliva Steve's mouth left behind in contrast with the heat of his mouth made Bucky squirm, and Steve's hands tightened on him, holding him still. His tongue swiped a broad stroke across Bucky's asshole, and Bucky said "God," brokenly, muffled. He felt Steve give a little chuckle, and then Steve did it again --

By the time Steve was done with Bucky, Bucky had left a wet patch from his open mouth on the pillow. He was pretty sure he had been saying something, but he wasn't sure what the words were, or if they were even really words at all. He turned his head slightly, just in time to see Steve wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his face flushed, and Bucky groaned again.

Steve grabbed him by the hips after a second and lifted them so that Bucky was up on his knees, with his face still pressed against the pillows. "That's how you like it, right?" Steve said, his voice low, and it was all Bucky could do to eke out, "Fuck, yeah," as Steve pushed inside him.

"God, you make me so --" Steve said, as he bottomed out, but instead of finishing his sentence, he started fucking Bucky. His hand came up into Bucky's hair, even though there wasn't much to grab onto, and he pulled, just enough to make Bucky gasp.

He thrust forward hard, hard enough to punch a little groan out of Bucky, and it didn't take long before Bucky was desperate to come, grinding back into every one of Steve's thrusts, "Please," he heard himself say. "Steve, please, please --" and _you used to beg quite a lot_ \--

He came, jerking, shouting, sobbing, Steve's fingers tugging uselessly on the short hair at the nape of his neck. "Fuck," he said, "God, oh fuck," and Steve pulled out and turned him over. For a second Bucky was afraid of what he might see on Steve's face -- regret, embarrassment -- but Steve still just had that laser-focused look, like a predator on the hunt.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said. He lay down next to Bucky and moved Bucky so that Bucky was straddling him. Bucky held himself up with shaky arms, but barely, and after a few seconds of that, Steve put his feet flat and his knees up so Bucky could lean back against his thighs. He was still hard, and he sat up on his elbows, and put himself back inside Bucky, who groaned, oversensitive.

He sort of hung there, unable or unwilling to do any of the work, until Steve reached up and slapped him across the face. It startled a gasp out of him, and his dick twitched, his body clenching instinctively around Steve. Steve slapped him again, harder, hard enough that the motion of it snapped Bucky's head back a little, and Bucky said, weakly, "Ste-eve," and forced himself to move.

He didn't know why he liked it. Did anybody know why they liked anything? And of all the fucked-up things to want, it had to be this, so that he'd be left wondering if they'd conditioned that into him too, or if it was something he'd wanted, deep down, all along. The whys and wherefores were irrelevant, though: All that really mattered was that it felt good. The hurt made the pleasure that much sharper, and he craved being treated roughly, especially right now, especially in this moment.

He knew Steve didn't like liking it. It was only when he got Steve carried away that Steve would really do it at all -- he needed an adrenaline rush of some kind to spur it on, and usually he'd never take it this far. As intimately as Steve knew violence, there was some mental block that meant he didn't want to let it into the bedroom, or maybe he just didn't want to let it in with Bucky.

Bucky _needed_ it, though, a dirty truth he'd tried to hide from himself and everyone else for a long time, but couldn't hide from Steve now, after it all. And as Steve slapped him again and he got harder and harder, it didn't matter where it had come from or who had given it to him. He was hard again even though he'd just come, and Steve made a noise that was something like a growl and flipped them so that Bucky landed on his back.

He grabbed Bucky by the throat and held him forcibly in place, squeezing hard enough that it was difficult for Bucky to draw a full breath. Bucky struggled against the hold even though he didn't want to break free, and he knew Steve wouldn't let him. He knew he could trust Steve, to give him what he needed, to make him feel good.

Steve fucked him hard, and before long, he went tense, dropping his head forward and closing his eyes. "God, Bucky," he said, shuddering, and Bucky felt him come. Bucky squirmed, and Steve glanced up at him, but didn't take his hand away from Bucky's throat, even as he pulled out.

His thumb crept up higher onto Bucky's jaw, and he wrapped his other hand around Bucky's cock and started to jerk Bucky off, agonizingly slowly. "God damn it," Bucky sobbed, and in response Steve's fingers slid into his mouth to quiet him. He sucked on them desperately, thinking there was no way he'd be able to come with Steve stroking so slowly, but he was so tense it practically hurt, and as Steve's thumb rubbed over the head of his cock, smearing around pre-come, he did, his hips lifting off the bed.

Steve carefully pulled his fingers out of Bucky's mouth and sat back, just looking at him for a moment and then moving off to the side. He didn't say anything, and when Bucky managed to sit up a little too, Steve was frowning, looking down at his own hands.

Bucky didn't say anything either, just let Steve think his way through it. "I just," Steve said eventually. "Do you have any idea what it would do to me, if I lost you again?"

"Steve," Bucky said, pained. "Of course I do. Come on, of course I do."

Steve looked at him with these eyes -- covetous as hell, but also strangely heartbroken, like he had just realized that Bucky had a little piece of his soul and he'd never get it back, no matter what. Bucky almost felt sorry for him, if that was true, because he'd known that about Steve for a long time. They stared at each other for a minute, and then Steve seized Bucky's face and kissed him fiercely.

"Okay, okay," Bucky said into Steve's mouth, when he'd let Steve kiss him breathless. "Steve, I have -- I need to sleep, I really need to sleep, and so do you."

Steve pulled back, laughing softly, rueful. "Yeah," he said. "Okay, okay." He lay back down, and Bucky reached over to turn the lights off, feeling like he could just -- fall down and down and down and maybe never come back up from the inky darkness. Let it take him in, swallow him up, cocoon him, until he was remade, ready to wake again.

+++

He was sore and still felt a little sick the next morning, and was infinitely grateful when he saw that Steve had had the good sense to bring some of Bucky's clothes with him from home. It wasn't quite right, looking in the mirror at himself with Peter's haircut, but hair grew. All you needed was time.

One of Tony's jets -- "This is Pepper's, actually," Steve said -- was at the airport to take them back to New York. Natasha was there too, slinking around like a cat who wasn't sure if she was welcome or not. For a second Bucky thought that Steve might be too embarrassed or self-righteous to apologize to her, but while they were waiting in the private lounge to board the plane, he saw Steve take her aside, and they spoke for a little while, with their heads bent together.

Steve fell asleep after about thirty minutes in the air, and Natasha leaned over, peering at Bucky. She had a vodka martini the stewardess had made for her, which she held in her hand elegantly, still with Anneliese's practiced ease. "I was going to ask you if things went okay last night," she said, "but you kind of have that 'rode hard and put away wet' look about you, so I think that answers my question."

Bucky shifted, unbuckling his seat belt and pulling down the waistband of his joggers to expose the top of his ass, which was still faintly pink, like a sunburn. Natasha stared, and then she downed the rest of her martini.

"Normally I'd feel like that's something I might need to be worried about," she said. "But out of every person I know -- every single person -- I think you and Steve's relationship is probably the one I am _least_ concerned about."

"Thanks," said Bucky, pulling his pants back up.

Natasha switched to Russian. "I'm sorry about what happened," she said. "If I had known -- you know I would never have put you in that position."

"I know that," Bucky said, also in Russian. "You and Steve, I swear -- I don't blame you. It wasn't your fault. I chose to go on the mission, and my choices sure as hell aren't your responsibility or anyone else's, other than my own."

"We were a team, though," Natasha said. "We were responsible for each other, and I let you down. I didn't do my homework."

Bucky rolled his eyes at her, and made sure she saw. "Letting me down would have been not coming back for me," he said. "Just because Steve yells a lot and sounds good doing it doesn't mean he's right all the time, you know."

Natasha fiddled with her glass, her gaze steely, not saying anything. "I don't blame you for being duped on a mission that was literally intended as a trap, meant to dupe you," Bucky said. "I saw the intel too. I was just as responsible for it as you were. Stop blaming yourself. Self-pity looks terrible on you."

"Self-pity," said Natasha venomously -- she and Steve had some very hilarious similarities that they probably would have been horrified to have anyone point out to them.

"You guys know that I can hear you talking, right?" Steve said sleepily, cracking an eye open. "And I know when you talk in Russian that it means you don't want me to be able to understand."

"Sounds sexy, though," Bucky said, in English. "Mysterious."

"Sounds like an angry bear gargling marbles," Steve said.

"He's just jealous," Natasha said; she still hadn't switched back. "Muffin," she said in Russian, grinning conspiratorially at Bucky. "Eggplant, carrot, baby, machine gun."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, glanced over at Steve, and then back at Natasha. "I can't come to supper," he said, also in Russian. "I have to take my grandmother to church."

Natasha waggled her eyebrows, and Bucky mimed swallowing a very large, tube-shaped object. "Automotive repair," he said seductively, when he'd finished, and Natasha burst into laughter.

Steve had closed his eyes again and was shaking his head to himself. "He _is_ just jealous," Bucky said, reaching over and flicking Steve's ear lightly, and then smoothing his hand over Steve's cheek when Steve looked at him irritably. "At least you can sleep on planes," Bucky said. "I can only ever sleep on planes when I'm fucked up or I haven't slept the night before."

"Really?" Steve said, shifting and sitting up a little. "I can -- try and stay awake, if you want, I don't mind."

"No, no," Bucky said. "You sleep. Natasha's not sleeping. She'll keep me company."

"I will," Natasha agreed, smiling. Truthfully, Bucky thought, any company at all was better than what he'd been used to, before. And Natasha was better company than most.

+++

He had nightmares the first few nights back in New York, bad ones. The kinds where he woke screaming, in a cold sweat; once, he sleepwalked all the way to the bathroom and curled up in the space between the toilet and the shower, when he couldn't fit into the cupboard under the sink. He woke up to find Steve kneeling in front of him, his hair sticking up and his face sad and confused, but JARVIS knew his history, and would get Steve before Bucky had a chance to do anything asleep that he would have regretted awake.

It wasn't the same as before, anyway. The barrier between his past self and his present was greater now, and he was more sure of who he was, where, and why. It was getting more and more difficult to be lost and disoriented. It was almost strange, feeling confident again.

He'd missed Pepper, who didn't ask him much at all about the mission, as if she could sense that he didn't need to or didn't want to talk about it. He'd missed the tower, his apartment, his clothes, his things. He missed the way that his stuff and Steve's mingled together, the way that nothing in the space really belonged to either one of them anymore, but rather belonged to them both.

Sam had been watching the apartment for them, not that it needed watching. It was more, from what Bucky gathered, Steve who had needed watching, and Bucky was grateful to Sam for doing it. Sam was easy-going in a way that Bucky had aimed for but probably never quite managed, and Sam and Steve were good together -- good friends. The kind of friends that Bucky had realized that he and Steve both needed to have, now that they were more than that.

He and Natasha were in the practice room, both of them sweating. She'd been busy since they got back -- busy, or avoiding him, or some of both; with Natasha, it was never as simple as just 'busy,' and you could never really tell. He hadn't seen her since they'd gotten back, except in passing, and in the intervening time period she'd cut her hair off again, back to the short cut she'd had before the mission. Bucky thought it might be the first time he'd seen her have the same haircut and style more than once.

"We're getting good," Natasha said. "We should think about competing."

Bucky snorted. "I think that'd be unfair for a large number of reasons," he said. "It'd be like Harrison Bergeron, we'd have to wear weights strapped to our ankles the whole time."

"Where's your sense of adventure," Natasha said dryly, lifting one of her legs up to the barre and leaning forward until her head touched her knee. "There's some indie theatre in Brooklyn that's doing a cult classics series and they're showing _American Psycho_ tonight. You want to go see it with me?"

"Yes," said Bucky, glancing askance at her. "You been asking JARVIS about my taste in movies?"

"For once, no," Natasha said. "Steve mentioned it to me a couple of times."

"Christ, I thought Steve hated that movie," Bucky said.

Natasha laughed. "It's at nine," she said. "Pick you up downstairs?"

"Wonderful," Bucky said. "I'll wear my best lingerie. It's a date."

+++

Bucky's phone buzzed as he rode the elevator down toward the lobby. It was Natasha. "What's up?" he answered it.

"There are photographers out front," Natasha said. "I think they caught Sam and Steve going to that brewery thing earlier. Meet me in the garage instead."

"I'm on my way down," Bucky said, and the lights in the elevator immediately switched to illuminate P4 instead of G. "Thanks, JARVIS," he said, looking up into the camera and smiling.

"Certainly, sir," JARVIS said. Natasha was waiting in the garage for him -- she looked nice: Skinny jeans and strappy sandals, a loose blouse whose simplicity showed off the lines of her collarbones and dipped low in the back. Bucky gave her a kiss on the cheek hello and they went out a service entrance where there were no cameras waiting, walked a few blocks, and got on the train instead of taking a car.

They split a huge popcorn and a bag of Sour Patch Kids, and Bucky got a cherry slushie he caught Natasha sneaking sips of through half the film. Afterwards they walked over to a small, busy bar, and sat on the patio, eating slices of pizza and drinking. Bucky amused himself and Natasha by cracking sunflower seeds with his teeth and spitting shells with unerring accuracy at squirrels and pigeons.

"Hey," said Natasha, and then, when Bucky looked at her again, away from a very fat, very wobbly white-and-grey pigeon, "Not to beat a dead horse, but -- I want you to know that I meant it, I'm really sorry about how that mission ended. I'm sorry about what happened to you."

"And I meant it when I said it wasn't your fault," Bucky countered.

"Yeah, I know," Natasha said. She looked down for a second, at her hands holding her glass, and then back up at Bucky. "But -- I don't know. I keep coming back to it, because… it was really bad. Seeing that happen to you. It was awful."

Bucky considered her curiously. She was right, of course. There was no denying it. But it was also surprising to hear her say it. "You've read my file," he said. "I know you have."

Natasha nodded, slowly, once. "Yeah," she agreed. "But knowing it happened and seeing it happen are two different things. And I wanted to say that I would never have left you there. I won't ever do something like that. I won't leave you behind."

The look on her face was a strange one. She wasn't used to it, Bucky thought, having people trust her. "I know," he said. "I believe you. I believed you the first time."

She shook her head, then combed her hair back out of her face with her fingers and laughed, a little gruffly. "Sorry," she said. "I'm just not used to having people stand up for me."

"You know," Bucky said, "a lot of people don't know what it's like, having it on your conscience. People say, it's not your fault, and the thing is, it doesn't matter whose fault it was. It doesn't matter whether or not somebody else made you do it, because it still happened. You remember how you told me it gets easier over time? It does, but you don't ever forget. But people like you and me --" he laughed. "People like you and me, if there is such a thing, even after it's gotten easier, we're always trying to make up for it in one way or another, and the whole time we know that we _can't_ make up for it, because nobody can change the past."

He paused for a second and took a sip of his whiskey. "All I can do is tell you what Steve told me one time, which is this: Just because you think you're a bad person doesn't mean everybody else will, too."

Some silence passed between them, during which Bucky listened to the din of the bar, glasses clinking and chairs shifting, people talking and laughing. "That was inspiring," Natasha said eventually. "Steve is rubbing off on you. You should be paying him royalties at this point."

Bucky laughed. "I should be paying him royalties for a lot more than that," he said.

"I don't think I want to even think about what that means," said Natasha.

"Probably not," Bucky agreed. "Thank you, for saying what you said, anyway."

"And thank you," Natasha said. "For having all those conversations with me. I've never really had anyone that I felt like I could talk to about that before."

Bucky lifted a shoulder. "I get that," he said. "Not a lot of people can relate to it."

"That reminds me," said Natasha. "I had something I wanted to give you." She reached into her purse, and pulled out --

"Is that a turkey baster?" said Bucky.

"For help," Natasha said gravely, "with insemination."

Bucky stared at her for a second as she offered him the turkey baster. Then he started laughing, so hard that it brought tears to his eyes, so hard that it attracted the attention of other people on the patio. He reached across the table, took the turkey baster, set it aside, and pulled her into his arms. They sort of stood up together, maneuvering around the table, and Bucky squeezed her, holding her tight, his cheek pressed against the top of her head. She wrapped her arms around him too, and held him right back.

When he got back to the apartment, he didn't see Steve immediately. "Hey," said Steve's voice, coming from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

"Who else would it be?" Bucky asked, setting his keys in the key bowl. He peered curiously over at Steve, who was crouched by the sink, staring with bewilderment into one of the cupboards. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Steve said. "There are -- about seventy-five turkey basters in here."

+++

Steve had finished that painting. It was beautiful, and somehow almost luminous, like it gathered all the extra available light to itself and then quietly shone with it. They had hung it up in the living room, and looking at it, Bucky had realized that it wasn't exactly what he'd thought it was; in a way, it was a self-portrait of Steve. There was more of him -- figuratively, not literally -- in this painting than in almost any other panting Bucky had seen him make.

In any case, the fact that Steve had finished that painting and wasn't working on any others brought with it what Bucky thought of as the 'research' phase: He wanted to go look at other people's paintings and come up with new ideas for his own. Inspiration by absorption, or something like that.

They were in Chelsea. They'd gone to the Chelsea Market and gotten lobster rolls, and now they were wandering around, in and out of galleries. Given the amount of attention they'd been getting from the paparazzi, Bucky had been a little bit apprehensive -- he was wearing shorts and a tank top today, which left more or less the entirety of his left arm exposed, and in the bright sunlight, it often threw reflections like crazy.

But while they were attracting attention, Bucky's arm especially, it was just the normal kind of attention, curious passersby whose heads turned in their direction. There were no cameras in sight. Bucky didn't know if they'd taken the day off, or if him and Steve looking at art just wasn't interesting enough to them, or what. He didn't know, but he was grateful for it regardless.

And Steve was having a good time. Hell, Steve was having a great time. He and Bucky were afforded courtesy in a way that they never, ever would have been before the war. The people in the galleries treated them like they _belonged_ there. Nobody tried to chase them out, nobody looked at them askance just for being there. Not to say Bucky felt like he belonged -- he was still perpetually afraid of ruining something, of somehow smudging the white walls or the pristine floors -- but it helped.

He and Steve were staring at a painting that was just layers and layers of black on black. "It's nice, isn't it?" Steve said, and Bucky, pulled out of his reverie, blinked at him. "I like it too. It's so simple, but it's elegant. The texture -- kind of like skin, or something."

"Yeah," Bucky agreed. "I like how -- you can see the first layer in a couple of places." He wandered over, picked up the artist's business card, and handed it to Steve. "Get one for the apartment, huh?"

Steve laughed. "Sure," he said. "Collecting art -- god, that's a foreign concept. Next thing you know we'll be turning into Tony or something."

"God forbid," Bucky said. "God fucking forbid." He shook his head, grinning, and he and Steve made their way back out into the sunshine. It was mid-day now, and hot as hell. "You want to get something cold to drink?"

"Ice cream, maybe," Steve said, squinting, putting his sunglasses on.

"Ice cream?" Bucky asked, pulling out his phone to search for an ice cream place nearby. "What are you, twelve? Okay, there's a place about five blocks from here. C'mon."

They walked the five blocks among all the parents with their kids just being let out of school, the cars lining up along the curbs for drop-off and pick-up. Steve went into the ice-cream place, and Bucky went into the coffee shop next door to get an iced coffee.

"Bucky?" said somebody, while he was putting creamer in, and he absentmindedly said "Yeah?" before realizing it was a young woman's voice he'd never heard before. He turned around, coffee in hand, and found a teenage girl -- late teens, maybe early twenties, actually -- looking at him.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," the girl said back. Her eyes were big, and some fight-or-flight instinct inside Bucky kicked up into high gear, but she just smiled nervously and held up her cell phone. "I'm, um, a fan of yours. Could I -- could I get a picture?"

Bucky blinked at her, and laughed. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Of course." He put his coffee down and leaned in, taking the phone from her, putting his arm around her, and grinning as he snapped a selfie of the two of them. "There you go. Beautiful."

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much, um, have a good day." She left very quickly, and Bucky picked up his coffee and went out about thirty seconds later, back into the sunny heat of the day, squinting at the brightness.

Steve was standing there, holding his ice cream cone. "You _are_ twelve," Bucky said. "A very muscular twelve. I guess I could be forgiven for being mistaken."

"You want some?" Steve asked, offering the cone. "It's strawberry."

"I couldn't possibly," Bucky said, dodging when Steve tried to shove the cone into his face, laughing. "All right, all right. What do you want to do now?"

"I dunno," Steve said, shrugging. "You want to walk along the High Line for a while?"

"Why not," Bucky said. And as Steve turned and started to walk in that direction, Bucky was struck, as he sometimes was, by the impossibility of everything that had happened, and the impossibility of how perfectly happy he was in that moment. He shouldn't be surprised by it - those moments of astonishing, simple joy had always happened with Steve around, often because of Steve. But it still caught him off-guard every time, and it was the best kind of surprise he could imagine.

"Steve," he said. Steve turned around, questioning. Bucky just looked at him, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, with his ice cream dripping down his hand. The longer he looked, the more Steve's expression started to change, from questioning to concern, maybe worry. The way his forehead wrinkled, the little line that drew itself between his eyebrows.

Bucky thought to himself, _Is this what you want? Is this what you really want?_ And almost immediately he knew the answer: Yes. Yes, of course.

"Bucky?" said Steve.

"Yeah," Bucky said. He squared his shoulders a little, almost unconsciously, looked at Steve limned in the white-gold of the afternoon sun, and said, "Do you wanna get married?"

THE END

"Afterward they didn't talk about those fires. About how they were learning to be patient with fear. How there was no such thing as undoing, and that putting out a flame didn't mean it hadn't burned."  
\-- Cara Hoffman, _Be Safe I Love You_  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Eli, as always, for the beta. 
> 
> The dance Natasha and Bucky are practicing is a [forró.](https://youtu.be/c33sqgUUJKg)
> 
> If you would like to see any additional warnings for this story, please don't hesitate to let me know! Thank you for reading; come say hello on [tumblr](http://dorkbait.tumblr.com).


End file.
